The fears of our untold pain, still cries of foretold tales, that lingers tranquility in our hearts.

With little drops of the blood slashing false cuts to our wounds.

We're raped of our virginity, while given false hope to our vitality.

Still the shattered pieces of our religions, remain a folklore to our delusions.

The begs for our cheer, a chaste ritual from our past, as the haunts of our memories still tell stories we long to forget.

Our blood stained skirts, a console to our tears, its memorial a...