Our time has passed away.
The flower has wilted,
No longer fluid, fresh.
Flowers left by lovers
Who are long cold, dead.
The red of spilt blood
Has bleached love white, white roses
Pain subsidizes not in action,
But in the thought
Of a thousand sounds pounding
In the cold damp.
It reeks of carnage.
War, you have left a void:
A blank in hearts.
How to wander aimlessly
Being neither here nor there?