Where The Red Peonies Grow

In land torn by blood, where the wild winds moan,

Ancestors rise from the ashes, their names etched in stone.

The warriors march in silence, for their tales cut deep,

Guardians of the earth, where the cursed secrets sleep.

In the realm of shattered honor, where red peonies grow,

The warrior’s blood stains the soil, a crimson tale of woe.

We kneel in prayer, beneath skies choked with grief,

Each drop of blood a relic, a dark and silent thief.

Spirits wander, their cries piercing the night,

Their eyes burn with vengeance, their hearts pierced in fight.

In the land where blood-red rivers creep,

Ancient truths are whispered, as the dead still weep.

From the ruins of churches, they came to claim the dawn,

The invaders, the wolves, in their cold iron throng.

In the house of torment, where innocence bled dry,

Lost children weep, but no one shall hear their cry.

History, a tapestry woven with sorrow’s thread,

Where liars dictate the past, while the real are left dead.

The whispers of the fallen call from the soil,

While blood stains the earth, a mark of eternal toil.