The drones of jets I can still hear within the sky, the song of
phantoms of the heavens that not a soul can distinguish but me.
The war had ended numerous years ago, though it nonetheless subsists
within me. I often wake up with a start as explosions echo in
my mind. We waged war alongside them, the humans, and they fought
beside us, us, the anthros. The war was a sick and cruel dream,
yet not to be considered a nightmare for my kind, our kind, for
it was when we were not frowned upon, hated, enslaved. It was
when we were free, when we were their kin, their comrades. It
ended too soon for us. After the war we where made into slaves,
no longer of equal status, and those who escaped lived on the
streets, starving. Though that time too has passed. It is the
era of the revolution. Our revolution. We now by law are equals,
yet through people's eyes we still are not. Still, it is a development,
and perhaps, maybe, the war that lives inside me can someday be
forgotten