one carpe diem in the screaming throng;
cast into darkness, they will carry along
a single voice of peace inside the fire
as thought you could alone escape the mire.

your leaders in their ivory towers await
the gilded hand which they have christened 'fate',
set all apart from those they claim to serve
when in their own self-interest is their verve.

the dissertation of the expert's mind
does naught to help the children left behind
behold the mother's screams; she's fraught with grief
this blood-soaked world we leave; it begs belief.

out in the field, the noble guns of youth
among the mounting dead, who wins the truth?