Sun is brighting and flashes us with waves, all is full of light kisses for people in peace.
Warlords, look the smiles of those who have never decided anything. They born in a land with forests and meadows. It sounds a soft song of wind between the tops.
Warlords, you are poor and miserable men, deciding which love is good, and which love is bad. Earth made all the loves around the landscape, and you say that you own the wisdom to decide what is good and what is bad.
You take your gun as if it was God, but you are empty and miserable blind men... One day, you'll die as everybody, and you will be alone and poor, only with you.
You posses only what you are. You owe what you have.
In the land of tartars, thousands of hearts are living; simple monotony of the fight of every day: we want survive, we want to eat, we want to built a better world for children, as everywhere.
In a land as any land, people smile and love people, but the lords of war play chess.