He has an amiable countenance, with a smile full of children's simplicity.
Through the pair of glasses on your nose, like thousands of pairs in stores,
he clearly overlook how hearts of human beings distribute.
Embracing the still and dignified past, you thaw it into hot tears.
Water in the stormy English Channel, dyed crimson,
Kept pounding sands on the golden Normandy beaches.
Over that European continent fallen in an abyss of darkness,
Among the broken walls, the humid air was too heavy to be breathed in.
A desirable romantic field! What made it a wasteland, lose its fineness?
Ah, such a silence! As if all this chaos had been abandoned.
But why couldn't anyone be cozy and at ease?
Above the unknown front, the extreme fear was lying.
People set pitfalls. Would they set their own feet on them eventually?
Without the lonely mother, the nostalgic youth was crying.
People bore penalties. Had they born their own sins for them before?
Please tell me, knowing only the lucky few could go home,
how could they talk and laugh, with those empty coffee cups in hand?
Even if the sun won't appear in the sky, The core cannot be frozen.
Even if replete ravens fill the firmament, the hope will not become extinct.
Within Hell on earth, should they keep their humanity or incarnate demons?
With the medal of valor, should they observe duties or pursue survivals?
To the end, for whose tomorrow did they fight!
In the remains of warm towns, and grasslands which were once vibrant,
Despair and pain extends as ivy does, clinging to the entirety of human history.
Mr. Spielberg stood behind the monitor,
Presenting calm thought and action.
Through his film, I saw constantly emerging saviors.
Could it be, among us mortals, that Prometheus emerges?