Once so predisposed to war,
Another torn within its ecstasy,
Dreamless and broken as though a pauper,
Behold that which binds the husk,
Being the war that one so beloved falls prey.
Neither mourning nor outcry upon the way,
Yet still all the more and all accounted for.
The broken arms of one if not many so it be told,
Born upon aimless wings of devastation,
Begging as one often does for death,
For pain to cease from being, so it be told.
Let it end.
