The land the war men chose to till.
This land I call home.
Tearing through the scrubs in search for blood,
Taking with them anything they come across,
And yet all this they say in the name of justice,
What is justice, if you kill your own mother?
Brothers turn against brothers,
Gunshots rocks the skys,
The days are dark,
In this lands the war-men chose to till.
The harvest of their work,
Is sorrow, pain and loss,
The justice we get is the chopped lips, ears and limbs,
Hatred is sown and death is harvested,
In these lands the war-men chose to till.
The dances that once filled the air are gone,
Laughter gone,
And yet 22 years, these war-men chose to till,
Their own homeland,
In the name of Justice.
22 years past,
The war-men are gone,
What is left to harvest; pain, sorrow, and agony
In the land they chose to call home.
In this fields, the laughter that was long gone,
Now returns,
The sound of children playing fills the airs,
And yet behind all this lies a dark memory,
One that nothing can erase,
Not even the strong detergent can wash away,
A memory that perhaps we will live and die with,
A toil that reaped nothing but pain,
In this lands I call home.
