A bonny lass sits by the sea,
weeping her tears over thee.
To form the hue of the ocean wave,
for untimely loss she could not stave.
These words to wars got out of hand,
and death itself now stalks the land.
Caused by men of nations that prolcaim their will,
pressing the blood of men in Hates' distill.
The loss of love does haunt her now,
as nations all o'er make Loves' head bow.
A prayer for peace she offers up,
so the bread of love, men may sup.
That these tears she cries aren't in vain,
for a tranquil Ire to console her pain. |
Submission Name: The Tears of Ire
