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Where is the morning Alexandra?
Why had the sun turned wicked?
In this aftermath
The ward become the morgue
Black, bloodied February
March of the Imperial forces
An army in green and steel helmets
Camouflaged with tree branches and twigs
With submachine guns they fierd from the grounds

Amok in Sister's Bunk
They conquered, they killed
Lunging at the casualty of war
As the shrapnel rained Alexandra

There in a room
Hundreds were left to die
Of thrist, of suffocation
Untreated wounds deteriorated

On a night of terror
With hands tied behind their backs
In splint, bandages and hobbled on cast
Dehydration and unconsciousness
Where red crosses were ignored
Explosions and gunfire commenced
Within the cacophony
As the bayonets rained Alexandra

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