Silence, a sound, or lack of it, that was welcome by everyone. Soothing, compared to the inhuman, bleak screams of the dead and the sound of magic warefare. The wind wouldn't dare disturb such harmony. At last, harmony. A warrior relaxed his arm for the first time in hours and dropped his blade on the ground, swearing to himself he would fight no more in his life. The faces of those he had slain, their cries of pain and agony, their looks of oppressed hatred still haunted his mind. The young warrior picked his sword from the ground and held it in his trembling hand, trembling of confusion, of sadness; he gazed the horizon of dead bodies in the battlefield and saw only horror. He could not stop feeling he had been used, used by his country, used to kill and to die killing if he had to. And so things would remain until his death, forever his life would be forbidden. He looked up to the skies, hoping to reach the apex of his mountain in an afterlife.

And so the sword was raised: with a trembling hand, led by freedom and confusion. The sky rained death that day, and with a seal of death should that day be marked, with the blood spilled from the bodies of two armies, the guts ripped off the bodies of thousands of men. All those thoughts crossed the warrior's mind as he sliced his own flesh, as he freed his soul from a damned corpse. Freedom, yes, freedom in the end. The ground picked the body in its comfortable arms and whispered soothing words that seemed to make full sense. The soul could now fly, could now run, could now smile. As the body stood there in grace, trapped by invisible arms while screaming for room to move, the soul could now fly. Freedom, yes, freedom in the end.

Além de não estar habituado a lêr textos em Inglês/línguas estrangeiras e, normalmente, não me interessar por eles, gostei de ler este bocadinho.

Gosto da tua forma de expressão, Squall. Exprimes-te bem.

Espero ver mais, e se possivel, em Português