The First Trumpet Poem by Nicky M Maloboka

The first trumpet,
The call of all saints
The call-off of all hope
The first harvest

Woe to ye,
Who shal'nt be part,
Part of God's salvation.
Away from all ruins.

People say it will,
Be a time of confusion.
You'd wish you just had normAl life problems.
You'd wish for death.


But here's reality,
What keeps men alive?
Is hope for a future.
Hope for a better tomorrow.

You work in hopes of good wealth,
You pray, in hopes of answers.
You hold on, in hopes of a breakthrough.
Imagine absence of hope.

But when that day comes,
Woe to ye, at the wrong side.
Earth will be a wasteland,
Earth will be pale.

As pale as the horseman of death,
But by then, his sword would be drawn back
As dark as the heavy rainy night,
But by then, there wouldn't be seen.

The winds of fear shall blow,
From all sides of the earth.
The search for death would rise,
But death will be nomore.

For a thousand years it will last,
And pain will get worse.
The absence of faith.
The absence of hope.

The absence of a better tomorrow,
It's worse than words can convey.
From all that,
Just to realize, it's just the beginning