A loud thunder rolled over the tombstone.
Like applause
Nobody wants to.
Go to sleep forever at the age of eighteen
Only the green ones.
For back protection.
The dream of those white doves
Crawl on the ground automatically
Build a great wall
Forgetting is a sin.
But don't use "forever young"
Comfort these sleeping people.
Maybe one day.
Tombstones also wrinkle.
Imitate, not them
The one I have been longing for for for a long time
The general's age
Still silent.
A martyr worshipper
Must be as silent as a martyr
Only thunder has the right to rumble on it.
Like the echo of the battlefield
or
Our voices