"The Grass Smells Red
The grass smells red.
The smell is naucious,
for Death flies above.
Cries of the fallen fill the air.
God has gone; Hope has no meaining now.
The victors, though they number few,
pray for the souls of the tortured dead,
so that they may ease into the heavenly gates.
Angels fly above; Demons lurk below.
Until Death makes it end,
their suffering continues on.
The grasses are stained crimson,
and the air smells of baking flesh.
The land reeks of innocent blood,
spilt by the unholy sword of war.
Though they have won, the victors taste naught but bitter spoils.