Ruins
Do not sing to the glowing stars!
For they sit empty on the sky of despair and desolation.
Our hearts swell in such a frightful pain,
The glorious pain too much to fathom.
Surely we're dying. My heart is full with agony.
But death cannot harbor any addition of fear over this dead city.
For it is gone, and never again to return to its glory.
Why do we even attempt to breathe?
Is the air not full with the calamity of evil souls?
Have our lives not yet ceased to be?
Are we not finished performing in this never-ending play of hate?
Our children ripped from the warmth of our very breast,
Our husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons slain on the scarlet fields.
Our dwelling place burned with black fire and hate, down to nothing.
Bloodcurdling cries of pain echo in my heart,
The reverb shattering hope.
Darkness engulfs us.
Yet, in the sweet dead of night, the nightingale still sings.
Our hearts swell, once again in such a fright of pain.
The glorious sadness too much to comprehend.