The Spring of a Dead is The Summer of Another.

 

 

I heard a story about a little boy

One who lost his mother in the war

Lived his life looking for a place

To go to, play in and hide

He’s been alone all his life

Waiting for his moment to shine.

I heard a story about a little girl

Who can’t say the word “papa”

In any language of the world

Her tongue is torn

It hurts her even when she smiles

To express her emotions painlessly

She cries.

I heard a story about a father

Who no longer recognizes himself in the mirror

Burns, cuts and scars

Children call him “ monster”

Although a hero he was

I heard a story about a land

That lost the smell of its sand

The steps of the occupiers

Ruined its roses and flowers

They shoot the birds because them they bother

And kill the young and torture and slaughter

The soldiers want a good night sleep

They shush even the rivers

And burry the cats

To stop their meow

They don’t sleep at night

Surely they can’t

Engines are not the reason behind that

Having the spirits of innocents

Hovering around

They regret it

They do

Alas for them, When it’s too late

They do

When everyone is doomed

Yet, the spirits, the innocents, the Pals

Sleep well

In their golden shell

And the gladiators with electronic whips

At the end of the day

Burn in hell.

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