The battle field is here at rest,
End of years of droughty pest
After the seekers slaint
With less seekers triumphant.
What the hell do they seeked?
After all, they waited never to see it
Just a tears at their grave post, no feast.
Worth their bravery remarked.
A minute past, all forgotten
But the scars stay behind the chin
To tell foestuses the tale
With their bloods, the land was astonished.
No more bleeding of the wood,
Weeping of the swords are exhausted
Booming! Crushings, the machine dies in decorum
Surrendering guns to their triggers
Won't the foliages rejoice? Yes!
Dancing in akimbo to breeze of peace.
In all ruins of yester reds
Has today emerge luminous greens.
See! Phew! The tomorrow seeds
Beckoning more barns for harvests.
Battle field heaps for farming.
Swords that slain verge to harvest.
Hunting games not human; guns.
War hurt spoken peace at last.
The revolution thus triumph:
Our valours are farmers,
Soldiers for the green fresh leaves.
St. Ylexinho
It will end in total praise.