The batel for my enyme

In hear eyes I saw God.
My life was blest.
I felt the peas,
wich was the wind,
before, the storm.

My life was good, and I got
what I had seen, but the batle,
for my God, was close by.

On the batelfield,
I armed my self
with my hart, and wistom.
Fights and batel I won,
and my hart got stronger.
But my wistom got tierd and weak.

It did not like any more,
it was useless, to fight with blod
………….for blod

In the batel I stand
with my wounded hart
and lost wistom.
In the batel for my own God
It is son gona be lost.

The last word of the screaming wistom,
Let it be, and say:
“good bye” before I die.

The sword of hate
kilde my hart,
and now I am lost
with nothing and my god
……………….is gone

In the batel,
I stand, naked,
with my bloded arms.
The truth is that,
…………I have lost.

That is what, I have to accept.
But still i will fight for my God
that I saw and I still love.



“In the the smoke we can finde the peac. But wich one.
See you thear”

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