Date: Saturday, April 20, 1996 9:02pm Forum: Poetry From: Girl on the Moon Msg#: 555908 To: ** ALL ** Re: The Pistol A rush of cold air grips the starts, the whispers of the night are calm, the moon looks down from above and wipes his eyes. A solitary flower sings in the battlefeild it's sweet music fills the air and the portraid sun melts. water flows from the depths above, over the mountains so pure mist carried down cries and pleads and the rocks close their ears. Disserted fences along the bank trees silhoetted by no light bones lie in the alleys the pistol, rusty from time. AC