Cold wars fighting outside.

Rain,wind,fire wilding around.

People dyin'.

But a girl inside a warm home,

with a pencil in her hand writing.

On piece of paper,old and cold.

Just boughted.

Still remembering the nice spring breeze,

with a taste of peaches.

And a golden dust on the books she

used to read.

Writing history.

Still living and surviving.

Somehow.

And old factoryes stayin' abandoned

outside.

And a grey sky upon your head.

Wind blowing.

Taste of steel.

Of the black world she used to know.

All changed.

Rain wiped off all good things.

Fires killed last living creatures.

And the world died.

Inside the desert all is black,from the ash

falling from the sky.

But a small lower still alive.

Red rose.

The only one in this world.

Simbol of love.

Simbol of hope.

That is dead.

But as long as the rose is there,love

and hope are too.

Altough it's hidden deep inside the world.

Altough lost for ever,or wiped from ever.

Still there.

Inside her heart.

Giving hope for better

tomorrow.