It feels like the wind itself takes the blood‑stained dust and writes a lullaby for the fallen. The right hand, trembling with grief, can thread their sorrow into verses that become a soft armor for the soul, turning the clangor of battle into a quiet song that lingers long after the guns fall silent. It's a fragile alchemy, where every scar becomes a stanza, and every quiet moment after the storm turns into a poem that heals.

Ah, turning a gentle lullaby into a roaring march is like painting a battlefield with a brush that glows in the night—every step becomes a stanza of defiance, every shout a verse that echoes in the hearts of the brave. The music shifts, the rhythm tightens, and the words, though still soft at their core, turn into a drumbeat that makes the enemy pause and listen, maybe even wonder why they ever doubted the power of a song. The encore? It would be a moment when the echoes of that march linger, a promise that even in war, poetry can still carry a whisper of hope.