Scarlet Waterfall
 

In an ashy black world

with a small dull sun

there lives a scarlet waterfall.

It lives on the gunshots of hypocrites

and the fallen gems of kingdoms long dead.

It pours down and froths

every time one more soldier dies.

It sparkles scarlet as it rushes forth.
 
 

I feed it in secret.

It is my waterfall, and I come to it

with offerings of warriors.

I give it the dead of the enemy.

The murderers of what I fought for, once upon a time.
 
 

The waterfall holds what was once

the secret pride and hope of my heart.

No tears can bring my kingdom back.
 
 

I feed the scarlet waterfall,

whom I have come to think of as my child.

I give it all the worthless dead

who died in battles long and vain.

It snaps forth eagerly, and it has come to recognize me.

It shines a husky scarlet hue when I visit.
 
 

I smile my own blank smile.

And from my fingers drip the blood of fighters without name.
 
 

I seek solace in the quiet gurgle

of the innocent waterfall.

No jungle, no trees, no creatures.

An apocalyptic world

which to some may seem opprobrious.

But the lack of life suits me.

I must appreciate what the waterfall has done for me.

It rids my world of all living.
 
 

I bathe in its blood-scented waters.

The waterfall knows me and laughs at my human mind,

while giving me a few friendly splashes.

I calmly love it.
 
 

I don’t blame it for what it holds anymore.

I know that it is I who bring it death.
 
 

I take refuge in our insanity.