A PICTURE OF PEACE:

A figure, silhouetted against the night sky, reaching out to the stars. Around her, a pile of bodies, lifeless marionnettes, strings cut long before time. Each with the same shocked, horrified expression. What puppeteer would make such terrifying dolls? This scene of carnage, of brutality and destruction far beyond description - what artist would paint this picture?

The tyrant, of course. She for whom ships would sail, for whom countless men would fight and die. True Helen of Troy, in all of her bloody glory, her angelic halo only given more vigour and beauty by the lives stolen, the bodies broken.

At the centre, she stands, reaching out to grasp even more, the artist of destruction, with beauty beyond beauty. What would men say of her delicate features, of her luscious curves, high, pointed breasts and firm, rounded buttocks? And yet, how many men have fallen into the whirlpool of her gaze, mesmerized by her eyes, and remain trapped forever, to become just another body on the growing pile? And how many women, courageous and proud, fighting to save their weak men from drowning, have looked, just once, and found the beauty that could not be overcome, the deathly grace, alluring, sinuous and deadly?

The weapon in her hand is an afterthought, thrown hastily in. What need has she of rifles, she whom no one would harm, for whom all would bow and die? A goddess she was, death incarnate, come in power. Death and beauty, and no thought remains.