As evening descends, the autumnal woods resound, not with the rustle of leaves, but with the grim symphony of deadly weapons. The golden plains, once serene, now bear witness to this violent chorus, and the blue lakes reflect a sun that rolls away, grimmer than before. Night, a shroud descending, embraces the dying warriors, their last breaths exhaling a wild lament from their broken mouths.
Yet, in this landscape of desolation, silently, in the willow grounds, red clouds gather. Within their ominous depths, a raging god seems to dwell, a deity born of the spilled blood that stains the earth. A lunar coolness settles over all, and every road, regardless of its beginning, now leads inexorably to black decay, to the ultimate putrefaction that consumes all.
Beneath the golden branches of the night and stars, a spectral figure sways. It is the shadow of the sister, moving through the silent grove, her presence a somber greeting to the spirits of the fallen heroes, to their bleeding heads. And softly, from the reeds, the dark flutes of autumn begin to sound, a mournful melody echoing the profound sorrow.
Oh, prouder grief! These are not altars of celebration, but iron altars, upon which a terrible sacrifice has been made. Today, the hot flame of the human spirit is fed by an immense, unbearable pain. It is a pain that extends beyond the fallen, a sorrow for the unborn grandchildren, for the generations that will never be, their potential extinguished in this brutal, senseless conflict.
