Waves of claret.
From the hills of the Afghan,
Runs a river deep and pure.
Caused by the suffering,
And the sounds of the war.
The river runs so strong,
Nothing gets in its way.
This river of deep claret,
Full of pain and decay.
The torment this flow causes,
Cannot be put to words.
Once again we see these people,
Watch others while they get hurt.
Down from the highest mountains,
The tidal waves will crash.
Will people around then notice?
Their wrists they may as well slash.
(I ask...why is the world as it is?)