The war of the human race
The war of the human race
By Blessing Mhlanga. 12/12/2019
They sought to kill the chosen but they later surrendered their blades. Who can master the songs of death? They breathe within the depths of malicious hearts. Our souls longs to kiss and dine with the divine, the only answer to the terror of human race. We race against the times of conflict residing in the spacious gardens of our wish, yet we forget that there's always a root of deceit in the baseless fantasy.
The ignorance of our walks may resemble the fallen flavours of lonely hills, seeking for a precious lover that only the Almighty can give. Who can withstand the soldiers of our furious mountains? The war was aroused by those who planted seeds of offence against a prophesied destiny of elegance. They wanted to win but their weapons only preached defeat. They sought victory but their regalia spoke nothing but weakening bones. Now here we are, forcing our mouths to challenge the curse of time, without reaching down the roots of the forbidden tree. The tree of turmoil fruits.
Eventually, to ascend above the ordinary becomes a myth because we haven't dealt with the vultures of the ordinary, who seem to threaten our green pastures with blazing flames of extinction. The master key is still within, but we have swallowed it, thinking that the fear of the unknown will preserve us from the coming fate. It may be deceitful to assume that gold and silver can save our perishing land from the harvest of terror.
The war can not be reversed, neither can it be quenched because the once calm rivers are still proclaiming sermons of wrath against our land and our offspring. Our spouses will dance on the bed of roses if these rivers are convinced to erase their stormy wrath. Our lands will sleep in the heavens of honor if the mocking winds stop their tale of disorder. A disorder of terror.
The end@@@@@@@@@@@@@
They sought to kill the chosen but they later surrendered their blades. Who can master the songs of death? They breathe within the depths of malicious hearts. Our souls longs to kiss and dine with the divine, the only answer to the terror of human race. We race against the times of conflict residing in the spacious gardens of our wish, yet we forget that there's always a root of deceit in the baseless fantasy.
The ignorance of our walks may resemble the fallen flavours of lonely hills, seeking for a precious lover that only the Almighty can give. Who can withstand the soldiers of our furious mountains? The war was aroused by those who planted seeds of offence against a prophesied destiny of elegance. They wanted to win but their weapons only preached defeat. They sought victory but their regalia spoke nothing but weakening bones. Now here we are, forcing our mouths to challenge the curse of time, without reaching down the roots of the forbidden tree. The tree of turmoil fruits.
Eventually, to ascend above the ordinary becomes a myth because we haven't dealt with the vultures of the ordinary, who seem to threaten our green pastures with blazing flames of extinction. The master key is still within, but we have swallowed it, thinking that the fear of the unknown will preserve us from the coming fate. It may be deceitful to assume that gold and silver can save our perishing land from the harvest of terror.
The war can not be reversed, neither can it be quenched because the once calm rivers are still proclaiming sermons of wrath against our land and our offspring. Our spouses will dance on the bed of roses if these rivers are convinced to erase their stormy wrath. Our lands will sleep in the heavens of honor if the mocking winds stop their tale of disorder. A disorder of terror.
The end@@@@@@@@@@@@@
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