Why doth the nightingale still sing of love
While death and destruction terrorize him?
They came in the night, blazing from above
And yet the beautiful bird knew no sin.
His voice sang of dreams and promises too,
Of a world full of hope and fairness and care
And with these things in mind onward he flew
Not noticing friends fall out of the air.
While the flowers became ashen with hate,
The pastels of the past lived in his brain
So the bird charged on not knowing his fate
For the flowers still bloomed down the old lane.
For visions are only things of deceit


Wrap the awful in a white satin sheet.