The Tricolor- by Loucas Dong
- Teen Writing
- Nov 1
- 1 min read
Sun rise flourish on cold stained stone.
Boots of man click through and through;
wake the sleepy lowlands from restless slumber, for death knocks upon the gates of first and second.
Crows fly in clouded skies, for even the sun in all glory bars the heavens, turns the blind eye
on the world she watches
on this woeful day.
Time feels heavy upon raw blades.
Curious eyes wander afar, to see what fate has in hold; from across the sea in the royal palace of another to the Prussian soldier who watches
the city of light
burn ever,
ever,
brighter.
Pure feet march shackled sans purpose more. Heart yearns to throw sense,
to leave on own terms;
a final flight of soul and spirit.
But the candle is snuffed,
and as if asking for reason,
he looks to the covered horizon
in a voice outspoken.
Pourquoi?
Then silenced once more, forevermore.
Glimmer of steel bearing redden blood
meets soft splintered wood;
a gentle symphony done too many times.
Long live the Republic
as white flags burn,
till the blaze turns red;
till dust blows away yesterday.
He who once came, divine
in words and moves, fated
to see kingdom turn wild;
be plunged to the ground
from graceful heaven,
whilst laughter fills the tombs, welcoming many more heads to come.
