The flower drips blood
from the fight from last morning.
How can this be real
when all life had been destroyed
and the flower still stands proud?

The tangy smell of blood
is still in the air,
but amongst that stench
the fragrance of the rose
still lingers.
How can this be real
when no man is left alive
to enjoy the fragrance anymore?

The decaying bodies of horse
of men
of children
litter the blood-soaked land.
Still,
a fragile blade of grass,
pushes out of the barren land,
offering a chance of colour
other than red in this world

Fifty years later
the specks of blood have all but disappeared,
but no one can forget.
Whole acres of flowers and grass
spread across the land
and when the sun rises,
the dew sparkle like tears,
but they disappear just before
the people woke up to
the new morning.