Battle Front, by George Chow
When a boy grow up to be a man.
Some with heavy artillery.
Some with magic powers.
Some with feather light hunting.
Some with sharp tricky agility.
To form a mess of a master piece.
Form the peace of an after art.
They roar, breath, and bleed.
Do or die with their fate of destiny.
Some sit with wholesome stillness.
Some bear on a horse with pride.
Some stand smiles with digniity.
Some lay in peace with holy.
And they were all been teared upon,
For those lucky generations begin.
|Posted: 2013-03-15 06:47:32 UTC|
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