If truth does not rise, the innocent fall, so a blackbird's demise is shame for us all. Lives laid to waste, atop mortar bricks, with dreams sought in haste, between broken sticks. If love cannot give, the children die, so all blackbirds live, a fleeting lie. Hope turned to fears, before the rain, while suffering for years, in utter pain. If clouds do not come, rain shall not fall, so blackbirds aren't from, the rooftops at all. With blues in the city, from homes of neglect, the youth are a pity, in all respects. If rays do not shine, light shall not settle, so blackbirds align, the darkened ghetto. With death in the village, from huts of unrest, the children pillage, an empty nest. © By jmalone