The world. Filled with millions of differences.
But despite the fact, we all are brothers and sisters,
Inhabiting and living under the same sky.
But despite this, we war and kill our siblings over trivial things,
Staining the earth on which we all walk,
With the blood of our brothers,
With the blood of our sisters.
The sky under which we go through our lives weeps,
For the clouds surely know of the atrocities we commit.
We slay, maim, gouge, and destroy our siblings,
In the name of things which ought not be fought for.
Approach a member of the family not,
With the tainted lash of hatred,
But with the pure flower of love.
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The sword.
A weapon who's blade is stained red
With the blood of its countless victims.
Were it alive, what would such a being feel?
Would it live only to fight,
And fight only to live?
Would it be controlled
By those with the skill to do so?
I believe that it would cry
For each person it has ever brought harm to,
Its tears as red as the blood it has spilled.