Hands linked in broken chains of blinding freedom,
She could hardly speak it was so beautiful,
So open and calm, like the break of dawn only just bleeding orange over the hills,
Animals waking from their slumber, men waking next to their wives with starlight in their eyes.

Love, a cure and illness so contradictory and poisonous,
Addictive in the most beautiful and traitorous way,
It was fate to **** for love, to die, to live, to remember,
Such harsh truths written and remembered,
And she was at the verge of it all.

She stood, head tilted back to the sky, catching reflected beauty of clouds on her neck,
Feet dangling over the rickety and dangerous edge of a water fall,
Steam rising in mighty waves, splashing water against her naked face,
Arms held out in triumph and freedom,
The scars of old rope burns healed into white marks of forgotten history.

Children cried at the burning glory of it,
The peace that had entrenched into their hearts and minds like magic,
A pulsing energy that scoped the land away from the harsh reality of war and violence,
They could remember the bitter taste of hunger on their tongues,
Parched mouths and brown beaten sunned backs, red from the scorched heat.

It was over, the crops were sprung up a new,
Rain cleaning away rivers of blood,
Dirt smouldering from explosions and ash sunken fires,
Freedom was ***** and glorious, bright like the deadly majesty of the sun,
Light pooling over the corpses like angelic offerings.

War was gone, and peace had pushed through the roughened land,
It was a bitter but desired coo in their chests,
To remember those that were gone, but to live on in harmony for those that remained,
Peace was not won with flowers and songs,
But with bloodshed,
They were the lucky ones to look upon the gruesome aftermath with hope.