I am exercising my right to poetic license. Deal with it.

I stand at my window
Gaze out at the landscape
Suppresses a blazing inferno
That wants to escape

Mist dusts the faces
Of conquerors, long dead
Who claimed all these places
Does power go to your head?

A crimson sun scorches
Old documents, paper curling
Forgotten songs, held to torches
Sad memories unfurling

A whisper call out to me
Through years, I don't know how
'Why forsake your history
For tarnished glory now?'