The globe is still.
Not for peace, but it's ill
The dwellers of the earth spit hate on man
And in wrath they have sworn to humble us.
Who then rules?
In Dominion we thought we ruled,
But even the tiniest of them has broken us to death.

The royals and the wretched are now humans again,
Gasping now for the same treasure- breath
For unto the pillows they lay now all haste for fame.
And their wealth they sell to fate;
For once, fortune has lost its fragrance,
For even this sword has slain more kings than slaves.

The aged and the young tremble to journey under the Sun;
For within the winds, death swims.
And our friends have become our dreaded foes.
For we know not who bears the enemy in his palms.
From distance we bid them goodwill
Lest,
closer they bring us death.

The globe is still
waiting for her Creator
But then;
What if this is the Creator's wrath?
What if to an end, her Dominion the Creator brings?

Who then does she call to bear her wings?

Perhaps,
The miracle of the moon,
As her children's blood spill over the seas and races.
Perhaps not.

Perhaps,she is her miracle.
For in her last breath she will find her elixir.
And all creation again, shall know the strength of her Dominion:
For it is the Creator's gift.

The dark is gone.
Please come O' morn, we prayed.
Sounds of gongs and machetes,
Sung unpleasant echoes through the walls, we roared in wait.
Hope they shiver and stay away,
In the heart of the night.
Ruthless we might be, as we became our own gods.
Guarding our feeble and tender lords,
Who layed peaceful on their cradles,
While we watched and matched round fire muttering riddles under freezing drizzle.
Tired and dizzy, we were
But rather we fall than let "a million" come near,
Our huts and loves.

Our jar of flour and a jug of oil, we guard with our blood.
For who knows? Perhaps, they be the last we bake of before our death,

If this plague persists.