Fire, smoke, wounds that cannot be healed,
Lie screaming on the battlefield.
Without voice, dumb mouths speak their story out loud.
A story unheard resting in the crowd.
But not lost fights for it's revival,
Always over shadowed by denial.
A love that rests inside,
Stretch your hand before it had died.
A cloud does roar by the thunder's light
Sun sinking in the darkness of the night.
But the thunder does bring rain,
Relieving the wound of its pain.
Sons of one mother,
Piercing the body of one another.
The wound does bleed, but the blood is your own.
The land is barren but the weed has grown.
Battle is fought for the fear of unknown,
You are baring the pain of the wounds you had sown.
You may win a battle but a warrior you wouldn't be ranked
A true warriors blood is feeding the land, lost in the sands.
To your eyes the world is nothing but hell,
But the world is pearl dew hidden in a shell.
It is a gift ever so rare,
It's your own heaven that god has to share.
The sword has stabbed the battlefield.
Stop move not, until the wounds are healed.
