The streets are paved with bullet cases.
The cobalt rivers are stained crimson.
The clear skies are grey with smoke
So thick even the air itself is suffocating.

The grand houses that were
Once filled with the conversation of family
Now lay prostate on the ground
And their inhabitants lay buried inside them,
Unable to reach the surface.

The sun turns his face from the earth
And the wind whispers sighs of sorrow
While the skies cry over the ruins left behind by war.
The stillness of death is so heavy with melancholy
That it crushes the souls of all who still breathe
And through the deep quiet that possesses the earth
A child, with his last breath, cries
“What about peace?”