Crimson River
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Grandson : " where do all dead birds[good people] go , grandpa ?"
                                                                                     
Grandpa : " To crimson river ,where they are born again ."

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Time before time ,
When anarchy prevailed .
Tears from those pure of heart.
Gathered around to form a river .
Far between the Himalayas,
It hid itself from the world of chaos.

It became the bowl of god ,
Where he washes his hands.
Dipped in blood ,
Of the demons he slayed.
He is never out of work ,
And the color is hence red.

Those pure of heart,
Who have hate for none.
After their death ,
They are purified there.
The birds of all flock ,
Who means harm to none.
Nurture their young,
And hunts only for food.

They give their life ,
Beside the river .
So they can be born again.
In one form or another.
Carrying the message ,
That their is hope.

Crimson river ,
The river of immortality.
Can only be seen ,
By those pure of heart.
For the rest ,
It's a fantasy river of red wine.

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