The Scene Is Dead

Blood stains on the ground
The nightingale makes no sound
Nature weeps the loss of its own
Her cold heart turns to stone

Scenery painted no more
Beauty has only death in store
Be still tonight, my nightingale
For our lives are so frail

No pack to bury my loved ones
Alive only in my fictions
In the end, you are always here
I remember you with a lonely tear