Medieval Mind
In yesteryear the wind was full of battles
Now the wind is still,
Only the ground is active, nourishing itself from the blood of countless sacrifices.
Wild flowers bloom around the spoiled spoils.
"Never again, shall I take up arms," he swore
To the sky, to his God, to the wind, whichever would hear him.
His fists clenched, he beat the air with his rage.
A rage that stemmed from thousands of conflicts,
Over countless millennia
From bare hands and to ultra-nuclear weapons
The results are the same:
The ground drinks fresh blood again from endless human sacrifices.
There are no winners or losers. Only the ground, the wind, the rocks will continue to strive long after we are gone. And the wild flowers will bloom once more in the light of our fading sun.
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