To paint the picture of the chaos Would Require a brush filled with blood colored Rivers Drawn on canvas of dark and bomb filled black
To know the anguish of the loss Would Require a mother held at gunpoint A scared brave father taking out Imaginary Money From his pocket to pay for the lives of his family
To know of the horror Would Require a sharp needle pulling at the side of your Lungs In absolute silent running with the night through the blankets of nameless, faceless bodies Laying in a dance on the floor As live ones stumbled on pass it
To know of the shierks Would Require your hands to be over your Ears But the sound of life dying still passed the Barricades of your your hands Shocking your eardrums And stealing the little piece of life left in you
To tell of the genocide Would Require survivors For lifeless bodies do not talk Do not tell But what if the lives one are living in another death Not the one that killed your body But that one that kills your soul