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The spring is wilting, it's leaves of veins slit red and makeshift graves where truth once layed upon a bed of roses.   

Those roses whose shoots once rose, through ashes of adversity now show no signs that the roots are even there; the blood has drowned it everywhere.

The petals are burning through the smog, which strangles voices in it's fog; the vegetation doesn't grow, it bellows in pain as the rockets rain another day.

The spring is wilting, the summer's doubtful if it comes. All time is ending; and no ears can hear a sound.  The fires suffocate it all.

The glimmer of truth still skies the hope but still the peasants die;  there isn't time to mourn their passing for here come yet more rockets from the sky.

Will there ever be a summer?

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To the martyrs and innocents killed in Libya, Syria and Bahrain. Let us pray your deaths were not in vain and that the world will see a summer come again.

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