Garden of Blood
Swing the sword
Sharp is its edge
The blood in my veins
Was not meant to be kept
Solely just for myself
In the first place
It was meant to be craved
A scent one could never forget
To be spilled and then to be swept
From the armor, from the blade;
And then to be eternally wept
By those who once claimed
They would be the ones
First to fade
No tears left at the end
I can't even cry for myself
All of them I have spent in vain;
So if hatred is what I shall gain,
Then try to strike me again
The outcome still would be the same
Silver hair coloured in crimson shade.
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© Нина Чалъкова Todos los derechos reservados
