Poetry

"Hello Professors," Malcom grinned, "I have some poetry, if you would be interested in reading it."

A Gray Sky
Freedom, stripped.
Humanity, gone.
Bodies, in the millions.
A massacre, only met by the savagery of war,
a death row, lasting for half a decade.
The bitter tears of those who know their fate,
the shouts, of those who have no tears left to shed.
Shouts, aimed at a gray sky.

A chill wind, a new living death.
One that no human being should ever go through,
where the peace of death, is salvation.
Corpses, slumped like ragdolls.
The ground, charred by filth, smoke and blood.
A burning furnace, pumping dark fumes.
Fumes, blotting out the last hope,
of a gray sky.

Hope.
Much too late.
For those who are gone.
Never forget.
Never again.

Lost
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

"Very Good Malcolm" Albus appreciated

"Thank you sirs!" Malcolm said in reply.

Excellent spirit,Malcolm