One thousand nights
Succeed one thousand days,
Upon which snow
Still none lay.

With blackened hearts,
Sculpting blackened Earth,
Twisted art Man did
Make in twisted mirth.

“Of solace; of repose,”
Did chant they
Knowing not the loss
Imposed this day.

The victors rejoiced,
All else lay dead;
But inevitable was the outcome
Of wars: untimely end.

Seasons and lives pass
And the children do not laugh,
Their innocence revoked
In their fathers’ wrath.

And bitter grew they:
Raised to be no more;
With fury of the Sun
Began ultimate uproar.

To one thousand days
Succeed one thousand nights,
Upon which lay
These awful lights.

With blackened hearts,
Sculpting blackened Earth,
Twisted art Man did
Make in twisted mirth.

So Man did retire,
In fallout and dust,
Fell their ashen bones:
A last winter just.