Walking on the streets in Rome,
where the ruins bring this poem
in this meaning of the past,
seeing nothing here last,
and believing that a brain
was sustained
in the deeds of Roman world
killing many with their sword
There is nothing really changed -
ruins, killing, and revenge,
show bombings on TV,
and the dying people plea.
Who would think this World remains
being stupid, cruel games?
After history of wars
hatred is alive and grows
There are always barking voices
of the cynical annoyance
being right in their genetics
that the life is not esthetics,
but an ill-fated game of habit
where the only rule to take it
while exists,
and the fist
of a person who is stronger
in command of flying bombers