Bloody evenings, red clouds

Bloody evenings, red clouds


My hands whirl around the bees, your lungs, water,
My hands are morning, a sad dog as a soldier.
My hands are full of gravel, grinds the snow clouds
Crying, weeping my millstones, I'm piercing you on the shoulder.

I have a nap, you go in,
Evenings will be red.
The enemy will go, everything will change
My homeland, or are you afraid of?

Blizzard came a third time, the bees have died from the hands,
Bitterly, wept over the city bell, the brothers lost in the forest.
Throughout the night against palms, weeping birch,
Bathed in purple blood in our half empty house.

I have a nap did not come back,
Where the red west.
The empty road is empty cross.
My poor homeland you or are you afraid of?

War is always sad, and cant be real, but anyway war is reality,reality of sadism and brutality,which born from deep inside, depest than hell,and war cant be future, becouse someones brokes own minds, they always coming back.RamuneLuAnanda(Phueng) 2010