In the heart of the sufferer,

Rests the feeling of honor.

It's the mind of the loser,

That fears the regret.

But in the eyes of the survivor,

Are the dried tears of pain,

And when the valiant rises from the ailment,

His eyes will glimmer,

And he'll be praised by the survivors,

As the star that rose from the dark.



In the hands of the loser,

Was the blood of the cherished,

And the eyes of the dead knew who murdered them,

But the sight of a mother's ghost,

Flying around like a mist,

Would bring a feeling of strength,

That would take away all the fear,

And when the feeling of freedom to avenge comes,

The reign of terror and vengeance would start.





The pain and grieve would be habitual,

But beware of the tiger that roars from the dark,

When the only one from the lost family,

That was left to raise the realm grew up,

And started reading about the past,

Every seat was emptied for the generals to sit,

Because when the wrongdoer forgets what he'd done

The scar of the survivor would not hurt,

But what was severely done to him,

Would not be forgotten.



If the lost one was cherished,

And the unburied one was left lying,

On the soil of his motherland,

The land of his father,

Therefore no one was treated excellent.

The value and quality of life was forgotten,

And the gun's tip-point decided the life expectancy.

No one knew when he was going to die,

But everyone walked with his own risk.

It was a time when everything was luxury,

But life was cheaper than a loaf of bread.

Therefore, what we missed the most,

Happened to be the lost and che