In still water, a dew drops,
Creating ripples and waves,
A vibration, a sound,
Echoed in the cave.
A lone figure stood silently,
Emerging from its depths,
Now two are full of melancholy,
Water drops mutely.
Three sees everything in black and white,
As a single dove flew,
Four saw a single feather drop,
And the cycle starts anew.
Five is the director,
Of this silent moving film,
Six has now a colored theme,
As the rest burned the film's glossy skin.
From ashes rose seven,
With innocent blue eyes,
As eight approaches,
Grenades burn their eyes.
I passively watched as the numbers,
Have a war amongst themselves,
I have to choose;
is it me or is it them.
In this game called war,
An advice I must impart,
Kill or be killed.
Nine's coming,
I braced myself,
As ten becomes the ending.