Poetry is a day of rain, like tears from heaven,
Poetry is a dawn of March with the sun wakes up in the mountains, pure air
Poetry is nothing hidden in the woods.
Poetry is the move of the leaves blowing in the wind, as seen through the ancient glass from a window last Rombee support gold. A window touched by the rays of the bright star of the day. Flute music in the background, and the exit of the house of wood and stone I can hear the voices confused the market and say goodbye to the old woman who goes to draw water from the well as every morning.
War is raising his eyes to heaven and see it all turn gray,
War is turning a start to the sound of horns tenacious,
War is sigh knowing that they face not one, but two enemies.
War is close your eyes and listen to their children's march to the ford of no return. The ford which leads to the indefinite, which separates the living from the challenge. Challenge for the love of their land and their loved ones against the invading enemy, a challenge for the honor of a fighter who does not withdraw unless the carts mortuary. Swords dance and sing the screams.
Death is the end of the dance, the last note of the existence,
Death is the end of the song, the last line of life, death is
odd times ford the river, between tears and lamentations.
Death is the poetry of war nostalgia. The greatest victory that combines the most bitter of defeats. The end of the last chapter of a book that is life. The road to wilderness, the land of those who did burn the icy fire of battle through his own blood.
Poetry is an echo of the tragedy that glorifies war,
War, is an echo of the tragedy that glorifies death,
Death, is an echo of tragedy praising the eternal silence.
And the wagons arrived, led by driver ..
Dragged into the pit, the last memory remains imprinted,
From the one who is never dead, but then was revived twice,
Earth in the face, the shade of a cypress
and closed the hole, finally all was silent.
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