Dead Flowers

What are these shrouded figures that appear, what flowers bloom. Out of this stony creek. Monger of death, 

You cannot feel, or sense in the depths of your avaricious souls, the woe of the ending season, for you feel only, for you devour only, the flesh of rotten bodies, where the bullets bite, and demolished buildings give no refuge, the newly-blossomed flowers have no relief, 

Innocent souls have vanished and no solemn peace, and the void sky, no stirring rain. 

Only there is perforating pain, and cries of millions and millions of dying birds, and the red sea bottomless, frolicking and foamy.