Rivers of blood;
Generations of blood
Lost to aggression
By men who are captive to borders
Drawn on maps with the pen,
By men who are slaves to religion
Written in books with the pen,
By men who are controlled by power
Assigned in offices with the pen,
The price of childhood and innocence,
Of freedom and peace is death.
I know not what is right in this world,
But I am sure there’s much that’s wrong.
So, when I die during this war,
Know that I regretted being helpless,
And bury me not in a patch of daisies
But in a field of red Cockscomb blooms,
Under the fiery red evening sun,
That I may rise again
With crimson fury in my veins,
And a pen that’s mightier than the mighty
That will rewrite the script of humanity
Not on paper, but in the souls of men,
That lives may not be snuffed again
Due to borders, religion, or power
And peace reigns over all, forever.