The sound of war bells ring of horror and death,
A melodious pattern accustomed to grief and death,
The deafening clings echo the painful cry of death,
Drowning the unpleasant hoot of the owl, a messenger of death.
The morning sun rays no longer sparkle the morning dew,
The hovering dark clouds shade a fearful hue,
The village fire’s splinters flicker whenever the cold winds blow,
And the wind’s whistle duets the bell’s dreadful tune.
Words on plain lines draw thoughts,
As the ink dries and the paper blots,
The letters imprint a story almost forgot,
Of heroes and heroines and the cause they fought.
They suffered with smiles of grit,
Our struggle reflecting through their sharp teeth,
Wading through wars and an unrelenting heat,
Driven by our hope of a foretold feat.
A tale is told of a three eyed ogre,
So big its steps thundered across the land,
So loud its roar was heard across three villages,
And tales of its destruction drew fear on brave faces.
Yet our village traded its ugliness for beauty,
Its destruction for fear and weakness,
Its intimidation for smiles of subjects,
Its evil growing and spreading across the land.
Can the streak of light still pierce the dark clouds?
Can the brightness still light up the darkness?
To reflect the radiance of the beauty hidden,
To awaken the vibrancy and colorful vastness.
Back when the trees swayed and danced in the wind,
Back when the gushing sounds of the river’s waters sang the flow,
Back when the soil was red and soft and worms knew where to hide,
Back when the rains soaked wet and tasted of purity,
Back when nature’s harmony was peace and tranquil.