The stories go, told by fear and awe, or is it ignorance
The bigotry of those who saw the flowers as signs of death
The air of summer exiting to give the rains a chance
When heads are hunted, blooms turn fragrance into a last breath.
Far up north when legends of roaming warriors abound
When hills turn bloody red, whispers of horror fill the air
Be warned. Stay away. When the trees bleed, you run as fast as you can
The signs are there. The warning. Heads are hunted. Beware.
And then you ask how can this beautiful tree be a sign of death
How can the season of its blooming be a marker for the hunting of heads
There must be a reason, if it is the truth
There must be a truth, if it is a lie.
Now I see them lining up roads and campuses.
They turn bloody red when the rains start to replace summer.
And then you wonder about the stories of the old and scared
Now that we see a lot of headless men sitting in the corridors of power.
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