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Leftovers of war
Bright colours swirl in the air
This day seems so fair
Yet at the same time so bare
The air is so dry
And it seems that I can't cry
The birds can't fly
What is wrong with this day?
It seems like worn out clay
And there is no evil to slay
The people are crying
The birds aren't flying
No one is trying
This place
It has no face
Nor pace
The bright colours of red
Embed
Itself into the grave bed
The war had ended
The dead ascended
The weak descended
What is left behind
Is the crying souls that bind
Themselves on this earth, blind...
