War Surrounded By Stars: Blood Can't Be Washed Off By Blood

In the end, it's the small ones that suffer. Only their bodies are scattered across the battlefields, full of wounds, arrows, and hate in their hearts, which, like poison, runs through their veins, contaminating both the body and soul. They are subject to the sharp words of those great beings that constantly play around with the lives of strangers, hidden from the eyes of those who die for them, hidden in their castles that the little souls can't reach.

And while the vultures slowly cut up the bodies of the fallen warriors, their spirits walk across the battlefield trying to figure out why they were killing and why they ended up dead. Why the empty eyes of their bodies stare into the dull sky, looking up at the castles of those who are greater than them and who are still alive and healthy, only now, with a smaller number of beings who will leave their lives on the meadows for them, hoping that the greater ones will honor the sacrifice that they have made at the altar of the homeland. After all, there is nothing more sacred than an artificial creation, such as the homeland, for which one gives his or her life, the one thing that someone lives for, the one thing that is worth dying for.

Life is transient, consumable. Death is the one thing that cannot be avoided. Whether it comes in the form of a sword, poison or age, it is always present. The spirits of the dead are constantly awake, forever with open arms, welcoming those who are about to arrive. Death is a part of life and life is transient. Death does not choose, and life doesn't forgive. In the end, we will all become dust and ashes.