Saluting tanks, and
track vehicles
who don’t roll over
our land
But over our souls,
And order us to
smile to
The reporters'
cameras
And to take some of
the corpses
With us to the bed
rooms
To complete the
reality nightmare
In our dreams.
I'll take the
children corpses
To bed
Their delicate wings
Will sparkle in my
soul
as they are flying
like Peter Pan
to the grave
we will set on the
ruins
that grenades
and booming made
to tell them the
stories
I wrote for them
And they had no time
to read
I'll tell them about
some
superstition in this
world,
like children
Who drink milk,
And sleep in their
moms' laps
Children who go to
school
In the morning
And laugh
Yes they laugh
And dream of anther
superstition
To our kids called
future
I'll tell them the
stories
Until we fall asleep
To be awaken
On a new blasting.
