The war is nothing but a metasexual celebration among homo sapiens

The war is nothing but a metasexual celebration among homosapiens, A grotesque dance of destruction, where bodies confront each other in an orgy of violence. Soldiers become avatars of the primordial desire for control and domination, A masquerade of power, where blood is the elixir of ecstasy and self-loss. In the arena, hearts beat to a primitive rhythm, sprinkled with sighs and howls, Shadows of an ancestral game, where victory is ephemeral, and glory a fleeting specter. Weapons become extensions of bodies, while souls get lost in the battle for supremacy, Each battle a journey into the dark abyss of instincts, with no way back. Behind the masks of iron and gray uniforms, forgotten vulnerabilities hide, Ordinary people transform into puppets of collective madness, And on the battlefields, flowers are replaced by the bright red of blood, In a grotesque bouquet, a symbol of a morbid celebration, without honor and shame. The thunderous sounds of bullets become the soundtrack of this sinister celebration, The entire scene is a frightening illusion, a manifestation of the darkness in our hearts. And in each wound, in every lost gaze, lies the story of a human tragedy, A tale written in blood ink, an elegy of souls crushed under the boot of war. In the backstage of this metasexual celebration, the shadows of endless regret hide, Humanity dances in a whirlwind of destruction, a prisoner of its own illusions. Each battle becomes an episode in a tragic series, unfolding on the map of pain, And with each sunrise, imprints of suffering and regrets remain in our world. So, in the midst of this metasexual celebration, where war becomes a ritual, A melancholic cry rises from the wounded souls of the earth, Calling for an end to this macabre dance and the discovery of a deeper harmony, Where souls can break free from the chains of war and dance in the light of true peace.