He's a rose's thorn anchors into the populous city, one morning,
Then ploughs a thick line from a district to another.
Only a plow can defines the graveness of the injury by the depth of that line
Intense or not, depends on how deep the thorn has tilled.

The mourns of people means the injury is severe,
Streams of blood trickle to seas in crimson clear.

The stampede of the beings in a disarrayed vortex
Like the rush of the endangered wild in the jungles.
Tears and pains in the citizen's hearts, unending
Longing and yearning to be oblivious of that cold day.

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