The whole world watches as the hostile forces invade my brain.
What I used to call mine isn't mine anymore, the hostile authoritarian powers at play are trying to convince me that the ownership has changed.
Government, law, militia, propaganda keeps changing, yet our love remains the same.
Yes my world, my horrid world is at war again.
My streets were drenched in blood, the earth pouring rain.
We wash our wounds, we bury the dead, we can't get hold of an anaesthetic to numb our pain.
Our will doesn't surrender to dictators, but our bodies do to ammunition and strikes.
Reality kicks in so do shame.
As history dictates the tragedy of lives lost is not as catastrophic as a strike on a dictator's vain.
What will become of us? What will remain?
Will we become memoirs of martyrs who died for their freedom or condemned into metastasized refugees who can never live freely again?
