From the weeping wounds of these men
I bring verses of agony，written in ink of blood.
On the faces of these morning stars，
I see lines，marks of violence，deep mourning
Instead of the beautiful songs of birds
the wonderful whistling of the wind
I hear thunderbolt of wailings
when death pierce the flesh of men with
when men clone themselves to death’s sword
Then，I hear hissings of snakes in the silence of
I hear panting heartbeats，echoing like the
noise of hell.
The smell of blood diffuses into the air
as houseflies chorus by.
Tell the person who says peace by pieces
that it is salt to wounds，the scars only bring
learn from the family of the moon
the stars’ companion of the moon
to drain darkness and violence in the veins of
and transfuse peace into the heart of men.
… Let man be blind
… Maybe，in his darkness，the light of peace
… Afterall，Cupid was blind
… Yet he shoots love’s arrows that binds…
Tell that drunk in faith
when it thirsts for blood in defence of its faith
that peace is the brewery of his faith.