When the war stories end,
you will find me in its smoky corners, trembling violently.
Look at my water, it is *****
and look at my future, it is empty.
I am the son of war.
My memory has been kneaded with its deadly dances.
Then I emerged from the rubble,
an echo of smoke and blood.
*
Because I am a son of war,
I have a wild passion to smash all the morning flowers,
to drink all the milk of Australian cows,
to destroy all the trees of the cedar forest.
For here, in my chest, a hateful flame with a destructive voice.
It shatters all the beautiful mirrors
Here, in my chest, is a wild passion to **** the dreams of the moon.
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 4:30 AM UTC
When the war stories end,
you will find me in its smoky corners, trembling violently.
Look at my water, it is *****
and look at my future, it is empty.
I am the son of war.
My memory has been kneaded with its deadly dances.
Then I emerged from the rubble,
an echo of smoke and blood.
*
Because I am a son of war,
I have a wild passion to smash all the morning flowers,
to drink all the milk of Australian cows,
to destroy all the trees of the cedar forest.
For here, in my chest, a hateful flame with a destructive voice.
It shatters all the beautiful mirrors
Here, in my chest, is a wild passion to **** the dreams of the moon.
