Withered flowers on gravely mounds,
Laughter weathered, shattered on dusty grounds.
There is no glory in these cities built by blood and unclean hands,
No songs echo through desolate streets, only silence on broken lands.
No Godly statues can conceal the anguish deep below,
No prayers can sanctify this wretched, blood-soaked show.
No laughter of children, only sorrow laden beneath barren land,
Only anger rising from the rubles of crumbled hopes of men.
No sun shines in these scarlet October skies,
Only powdered white clouds burning bones of voiceless cries.
No phoenix rises from these ashes,
Only smokes and shadows lingering in hearts of the helpless.
Birth shall be hatred imbued in generations to come,
From sticks and stones to mortar and martyrdom.
These little boys, one day grown,
Shall inherit a world where their innocence overthrown.
From the land to the sea,
A tragic reason for a reckoning.
