Under The Violet Sky

 Counting the dead under the violent haze
That struck the elder,
The weak and the frail.

Counting the corpses under the violet sky until morning glows
To snatch away in flow
Those gatherings, hugs, caresses and kisses.

When does the counting stops?
When will the last one colapse?
Why does the fittest survives and posseses
An implicit power he cannot share?

I'll count those numbers of who's
left in despair and morbid distress.

I'll count the number of souls
(As if souls were accountable)
Of those for whom there were no time left to tell,
To see springs unroll in blossoming farewells,
And to listen to snows release its waters with skill.

How many mistakes will have to be forgotten
to mourn their trustful but empty will?