The steel helmets march in,
decimating this lifeless land;
in anguish the helpless burn,
on black marshes the children stand.
There is nothing I could do,
for in paralysis I lay bare,
when children ran in on the spectacle,
of a cherished yet forsaken mare.
In dreams I dream of my airy cask,
in the air I wield a blunted sword,
again before this old indigo dusk,
resolute and honest does the blade thrust.
In estranged land she brings to me,
fruits from a lake of blood,
formed as the emperor’s dessert,
into crumbles the world shatters.
O what before a long sleep stand,
when in sleep we dream of this prelude,
tormented and morphed into despair,
in sleep I sleep in a no-return land.
Yet strange it is the barrel shakes not,
for all but episodes of a crimson plot,
when snow falls on a traveller’s path,
as light drapes over a loveless knot.
