By Lengs

Not a good year, 

Especially in 1,464 days. 

It is like end time. 

Despicable horror thunders. 

In it, people disappear. 

Thick dark cloud-trapped many. 

Limps fly in the air.

Even heads are disconnected, 

Rolling in the street. 

Blood flood like unending stream. 

Some not to be seen again. 

Messengers took over the March, 

Forcing people to submit, 

To only one master. 

They recognise only one voice, 

The card they carry. 

Those who do not bow always die. 

That is the day of election in my country. You do not decide, You submit.

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