War is that point of negotiations when whords are no longer enough.
Now, its all left to who holds the best.
Brick by brick falls to pieces
desperate yells silenced.
The sun glares. The rain screams
Thunder- the orchestra of the explosion of grenades,
while lightening rips across the sky, slicing the empire of the clouds, the same way
the sword slices human flesh-
The moon is red. It bleeds, collecting and attracting blood from the sliced
decaying remains rotting on the fields where the war was silenced, the same
way a magnet attracts metal to itself.
Ceasefire cleanses the clamour of the previous night.
After all, no longer is the child soldier compelled to fight.
Years fly by, like the birds who’s wings rule the kingdom of the supposed heaven.
The sun smiles now.
The moon is gentle.
Thunder is soft.
Lightening is spectacular.
Flowers bloom on the forgotten battlefield-
red, blue and a rainbow of colored petals with a jade green grass background,
covering up the previous horrors brilliantly,
just as a bright smile does.
Yet, the child soldier, now turned adult holds the eyes of a warrior and the grim smile
of one who’s soul was snatched away
by the Gods of this demented warfare.