Who knows the tears we saw?

Who heard the cries we cried?

The echoes that sound more than a beating drum.

A minute of deafness it brings, with ears ringing with tingles.

Who knows the song we sang,

The chants of our warriors,

Children cries with profound drooling nose.

To end war is to start war,

The cries will never cease,

It may lay low for a minute but it doesn't mean it's over.

Who knows the things we saw,

Children young enough to suck from their mothers holding objects sharper than their fingers.

If they carry on like this, acting upon what they've seen, then will they not want to practice it?

Can the war truly end?

~