People pick at ugly bones
The grey breeze covers the sky as Nazis with beady unforgiving eyes
Easy battle contradicts the little children passing by
Little pattering feet hit the ground every half step, skipping
An arid hobbling tune picks at your ears
For a moment a smile slips across your face
Then, the fleeting memories of sunny days, daisies at your feet, laughter slips away
All that is left is that vacant green hill with the echo of children pale across your consciousness
Silently riding amidst the terrain there is something salubrious
Grimy rats cringe at those leftover pickings
There is not much left, without protection, without protector
Victims made every day everything goes and even memories may disperse
Ugly bones may pick away at people