In a far and forgotten realmWhere love never goesAnd smoke instead of The clean air blowsAnd no birds there anymoreJust ash-covered crowsThat is the realmOf unkept hate That wretched soul was warnedBy the author who spoke for peace Because the idea itself cannot speakIf he had listened maybe he would cease Instead he brought more destructionTowards what was actually goodLives ruined, world-views shattered,People hurt, but he just put up his hood Time and again the author would comeAnd again show him his mistreatOf the homos, the big bangers,The black, brown, yellow, forced to retreat The true Indians, the poor infantsEven the ones who honor the Christ The poor trees, and clean air,But the soul still treated them like dirty mice  As that wretched soul declared himself inevitableThe two heard a loud thud They turned and saw a poor soul without a groupThe outsider was laid to waste like the crud The wretched soul had seen the rest as. It was over with, the ones not involvedHad been dragged into the conflictAnd payed the price for a problem unsolved  The wretched soul now remains here inHis purgatory, eternally remindedOf the terrible tragedy, the world ruinedAnd how he was one-sided I don’t know about the restBut I’m inspired to be the authorThe one who spoke truth to powerFor peace and who tried to open the doorTo a better solution than this aggression