No peace of mind.
We are born in the crossfire, newborns who ate gunpowder instead of child food, bought helmets just to watch an hour of T.V, the battle was always present in our hearts and minds, let death come wearing IDF clothes, or ISIS black jumpsuites, or American marines clothes, carrying an m4 carbine or bombing with an American jet sold to Saudi monarchs, maybe with a chemical formula handed to Iran and Assad, or molten lead shaped into a .50 caliber sniping our existence.
Born in the crossfire, some went mad, some became the proxies that ruined their lives, others were so shocked.
They tell stories of burning weapons called nuclear bombs; waving in the horizons of superpowers.
We are the doomed newborns. Our existence is full of wounds that tell real stories that were never meant to be believed. Real as the taste of gunpowder. But a world that enjoyed to feast atop of the dead would never say a word of truth; would never tell our tale.
We are born in the crossfire, newborns who ate gunpowder instead of child food, bought helmets just to watch an hour of T.V, the battle was always present in our hearts and minds, let death come wearing IDF clothes, or ISIS black jumpsuites, or American marines clothes, carrying an m4 carbine or bombing with an American jet sold to Saudi monarchs, maybe with a chemical formula handed to Iran and Assad, or molten lead shaped into a .50 caliber sniping our existence.
Born in the crossfire, some went mad, some became the proxies that ruined their lives, others were so shocked.
They tell stories of burning weapons called nuclear bombs; waving in the horizons of superpowers.
We are the doomed newborns. Our existence is full of wounds that tell real stories that were never meant to be believed. Real as the taste of gunpowder. But a world that enjoyed to feast atop of the dead would never say a word of truth; would never tell our tale.
