A ringing bell, clear like the echoing of a triangle,

Cuts through the silent air–a signal for the end of time,

As cars rust, as we return to dust,

As buildings crack, collapsing into rubble.

Still, the grimy, gold bell swings, like a pendulum,

But bereft of a breeze. In dead silence. 

Brown grass fills the air; trees stand bare,

Stripped of their previous glory. No more. No more.

Carcasses of factories fill the bleak horizon,

Building mountains of decomposing stone–

Forlorn, alone, never to atone 

For the sins that stain the groundline.

Desolate forests of lonely stumps, with no trace of green; 

Centuries-old trees are cut clean.

No bird, no insect, no burgeoning blossom invades the scene.

The bell chimes, as fields yearn for the locusts to return.

The bell tolls.

The bell chimes to mark the end of time.

Recall, remember,

Your fallen brethren, but know

For whom the bell tolls.