There alone in a nearby tree,

A scribe who enjoys being free.

Singing and chirping through a melody,

That to the unsung heroes was a tragedy.

Grateful for a life without a chain,

They trample the memory of the rain,

The rain to which the greedy gain,

The rain where blood has finally reign.

Where to past a binding scroll,

A hand of fire gripped their stool,

Where stomach aches and mouth drool,

Death arose like a mountain troll.

Flock the birds in the neglected wall,

Alone the chirp, their head on the stall.

Opposing in line your life would fall,

The bird, voiceless, buried in no hall.

And yet the darkest of their history,

Balled in the subject of insurgency.

Nothing but flaws of a hating sea,

Nothing but an avenger's plea.

Supposed peace is what these arms sought,

History was a blind game the mad ones taught.

Fabricated were facts, yes they caught,

It was for nothing, what these heroes had fought.

Coz yes this scribe who in the trees nest,

Revered the seedling whose a snake at rest.

Facts and lies once again at test,

This rotten in the chaos secretly feast.