They appraised not, what was given to them.
Ruminating; victory is by our hands.
Selfish pondering; retribution is mine
but when the war is over, what will be left behind?
What wasn't embraced by the flames, kissed by the missiles
and enveloped by the bombs?
And those didn’t stop to ask, is there another way?
Did even one of those say, what about them?

And what about the people? The crowd, the city.
What about the face of her, once so pretty?
One hundred, two hundred years underground.
Three hundred, four hundred and there she was bound.
For her brother the king did not protect her soul
and so God said “Enough!”, they had taken their toll
on him and his precious, his jewel, his treasure.
He suffered seeing her cry and despised to see her agonize
and so he made her rise.

And so what is the moral
of the tale, the rhyme, the chapter?
That she will rise again.
The crown before her, not after.