Love the dead as they fall into the river, blue as it is, torn to black for the absent in your mind. Use them as an excuse to get out of your pitiful life and run into the sea of flowers that covers the shame in your tears. That soil you're stepping on, it was made by and for the one's that are beneath them, shot in the prime of their life's, grated the wish of dyeing with honour and dignity. With blood on your hands and death in your mind, you lay to rest for another war to come.
Part on an adventure into the land of the forgotten, where you are blessed with the most blinding lights, coming from the flowers in your head, a mask beneath the face of murder. Cross the enemy fields into something made of terror. The grey above you has come to play with your mind and you chose to receive it with open arms and a broken heart. The bombs drop in the fields and you rest for a little, open your mind and realise that you're in the war. What are the wars made for? Why do we fight, over and over again, killing our brothers and sisters, made of the same blood, blessed by the Goddess the same way we did. When did we decided that we accepted being puppets? And now, wars are not fought to decide who is right, only who is left.
Regret your second coming as I regret the spring of emotions, love the dead as they fought for the ground that you're stepping.
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