The Wind arrives,
Pulling the reins of the storm’s chariot,
As a ruthless fall, everyone awaits.
To stomp the crippled,
As blood drizzles;
For a terrific battle, this arena awaits.
The Thunder arrives
In the cloak of darkness
With sizzling eyes,
Hungry for blaring screams.
To burn the fallen,
And bury the forgotten;
To leave hair standing, The Lightning awaits.
The Hail arrives
On the back of winter’s high horse
Through the ripples it brought
In the peace of The Sky.
To behold the bastard,
Who dared to foster
A ray of infectious sunshine,
On this Grey Land, like a land mine.
Yet on the other side stands
An incomplete masterpiece;
Leaning weak against The World’s ironies.
Awaiting the upcoming catastrophe
Lying beyond these flashing streaks.
And Time stands in between.
The master of creation and forgotten memories,
Judges the war’s destiny;
“…. Pride, or a Fallen Dream…? “