Spilled blood from the wounds has dried long ago ,
Still you urge to spill more n more of it more. .
Worthless things. . .
Dropped d trail of blood from thine wounds,
Drip drip drop drop. . .
Making a rhythmic sound as it touch the face of the earth,
Collecting together to fill the pond of so called 'red water'. .
But Soon it will dry off,
Leaving off a scar behind,
Till you come again to replenish the water of the Red Water Pond again. . .
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