The broken pieces of swords and sabers,the armours painted red,
Now slowly turning black..
The crawling ants,enjoying their fill,as the dark blood flows down from piles of bodies.
The dismembered limbs,the somewhat still alive deads..
The deads of today and tomorrow,sitting around arranging the pieces..
It was definitely a war zone..
The dead land where there was not a sapling of green,
Now there bloomed a little seed..
As if taunting the weak men and women,of their cruelty..
As if telling them..
No matter what you do,life would still go on..
No matter how much you destroy,no matter how much you kill yourself..
Life would still stand tall..
Except you dancing on your own greed,it has no impact on anyone..
Even if you build thousands of war zones,
Somewhere quitely new life would be born..
