A kingdom of the prosperous is sundered away from the rest,

They prosper but choose not to aid,

Their own brethren. Of the same province and of the same peoples, there is no difference.

While the rest is doomed and no hope is in sight.

When the rest become desperate,

When the rest fight against each other to survive,

When this side of the land lives in upheaval,

The Kingdom rushes to this fruitless inescapable land, but not to commit a benevolent act of aid,

Only to blind the truth from wandering eyes and cut their tounges from eavesdropping ears.

They must burn the bodies by piles, brush it under the carpet, and hope not to get caught.

They must move silently in the dark.

For the truth is so inhumane, that they themselves can't bear it to face it aloud.

Nor to the worldly scales of universal justice.

It is a strenuous cycle, but not impossible to break the chains.