This smoke swirls with its comforting hues of grey
It wafts away and disappears towards the stars
Making beguiling symbols on its way
If silence is golden, why do we cry?
History takes hold of me and tells me things
One mayhaps should not know
The hands craving for release still try
I must move or they will not be heard
Hiding in their graves the unwanted
Unneeded
But we the few will have learned
The preciousness of wanton blood spilled
A restitution of respiration
Go along with the tide
Still can’t unsee the faces of those I have slain
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