There is talk of tomorrows war.
Laughter must buckle beneath self-felt hate.
As we foretell of our own dark fate,
When we are torn by claw and maw.
Fell creatures rise from man's own eyes,
Blossomed in blood and slew by nought.
We fear the tomorrow on ourselves we have brought.
Where nothing moves but the death eating flies.
As the now-day ends and tomorrow blooms,
Our fearful watch is gladly left;
Our troubles passed to our children bereft.
For the world they were promised lies in ash coloured plumes.
Trust not the hope of a silent end,
Moves made by the past will the future bend.