Wasted Times

More about Wasted Times

Picture a battlefield strewn with broken remnants of human lives and the twisted wreckage of war machines. The ground is scorched, covered in ash, littered with charred bodies, and stained with blood. Shattered weapons lie abandoned, their metal gleaming dully in the dying light, as if bearing witness to the senseless destruction. In the distance, crumbling buildings, once symbols of civilization, now stand like skeletal ruins, hollow and lifeless, as smoke rises from them, choking the sky.

Amid this devastation, piles of burning money stretch as far as the eye can see, casting an eerie glow over the landscape. Crisp bills and shining coins, once symbols of prosperity and promise, are now reduced to embers. The flames devour them greedily, sending sparks into the air, as if mocking the futility of wealth in the face of such overwhelming ruin. Entire fortunes—once capable of building nations—are consumed in an instant, the heat distorting the very air around them. The fire’s crackle echoes like laughter, reminding all who bear witness of the irretrievable cost of war.

Among the burning money, people lay scattered, their lifeless forms telling the story of unimaginable loss. Some wear tattered uniforms, their eyes still open, frozen in a final expression of fear or rage. Others are civilians, their bodies crumpled where they fell, caught in the crossfire of forces beyond their control. The young and old alike, faces once filled with hope and dreams, now lie forgotten amid the wreckage. Mothers clutch their children, their bodies curled in vain attempts to protect them from the unstoppable tide of violence. A father’s hand still reaches out for his son, forever inches away.

The few survivors stumble through the scene, dazed and hollow-eyed, their clothes torn and faces smeared with soot and tears. They trudge through the burning money, stepping over corpses, unaware of the wealth that surrounds them—wealth that once held meaning, now rendered useless in the aftermath of destruction. They search for loved ones, for hope, but find only the haunting silence of the dead and the eerie glow of the flames.

In the distance, war machines sit idle, their engines cold, but their cost clear. Once symbols of power and control, they now seem like monstrous monuments to the futility of it all. Their hulking forms loom over the battlefield, casting long shadows over the wasted land, where nothing remains but death, destruction, and the bitter realization of the true cost of war.

This is the ultimate price—the burning of wealth, the loss of life, and the destruction of humanity itself, all for a conflict that leaves behind nothing but ashes and sorrow.