Blood, grass and acorns

we do not know the history,
we haven't tasted the diet of blood,
grass and acorns
and our children running around,
mad with hunger,
no we have not known that.

Focus now on the cottage.
It looks calm, rural, peaceful, hearthy,
no tell-tales of that turbulent darkness
forever lost.

The old lake looks at us now,
with its brand new trust-managed pristine face.
No telling of the past miseries
it was a witness to.

The chanticles and their purities,
bestowed festival, they could not be other way,
for such was the harshness of everyday life.

We have not known it.
How hard and pressing escape
must have presented itself.

The tears looking towards the cross
and its false hopes.
All they had.

Blood, grass and acorns.