Broken island

Cold and lone,
In company of squawking trees,
And resonating echoes of blood shed

Spilled on dark soils
And run to earth’s depth,
By the falling rains of desolation

Wiping, gently, my tearless eyes,
The fountains of sorrow
But now dry deserts of depression

Hanging onto the red moon,
Like it was then on the first night of this dreadfulness

It was the battle of the lords,
The war of angels and demons,

Pitched screams,
Reached beyond where eyes could reach

Sounds of clashing steel,
A million horseshoes rumbling below

Shiny armours of iron vests
Reflecting the flames of burning hats

And silhouettes of slain brothers,
Scythed to rise with the dark smoke

My fingers shivered,
Still holding the hilt of my blooded sword,

As I watched endlessly,
At the sestructive power of fury

For glory and honor,
Gold and power,

In the name of history,
Tearing apart walls of a long known generation

That above their soulless skulls
An iron throne shall sit

And names of fallen knights,
Engraved in the floor, in the hall of justice

So I ask now,  like I did then,
Where is justice in shedding of innocent blood?


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