The tragedy carried on,
and the seasons turned,
then
the hero sank
in the blooming buds,
though
no spring
in his heart:
~He learned
heros are often
those who surface on the eyes.
And l ike sacrificing rituals
war is the fiesta of Gods:
the feeds
of the brave hearts!!~
Drowning in blooming buds
the audience wowed him,
adored him,
and the scent of the fresh red roses of his blood.
one after the other
opened,
shooting out of his veins
upon the shoots
of
not the audience this time
but his own adoration
for he was not performing
anymore .
