Our reality is a passing face
That lit the way for vulture's devour
In our territory are smashed skull of honest heads
The throats of our dried streams
Is Yield with the liquids of their daggered seas
Our reality is a demise grin
That Scented the dim flies
Charm the bare owls to the gathering of Broken virgins and age moms
Whose dead bodies lies in red bed of the plumpless sand
Caressed by residue and sun
Our reality is lush
From the bar of bile blood
Lying stripped in the trench of stenching frightfulness and pongy fear
That needs our assistance of peace
For the aggregate peace we'll assemble
Will yield the much wanted peace we require on the planet
Let each breath of our considerations exuding from the tents of our souls
Contain a few particles of peace
How about we make peace the perimeter
At which everything spin in our lives
let pierce the skin of our enmity world with the lances of peace.
