The cold, somber tone of gray fall like a shroud
Over the death-veiled face of the land.
No more will ringing laughter echo through the hills,
No more will the sun’s warm rays touch her desolate bareness.
Dark, flowing velvet
Fire like Brandywine
My life for you
Their lives for me
Let the feast begin.
The ice-cold stalker creeps onward,
Oblivious to the misery, which follows in his wake.
As he steals the light and the last hope of life
From the earth’s wary soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.