We will destroy ourselves, ironically,
for the reason will be the search for peace.
The heralds will sing songs of harmony,
and they will echo through the seas.
So desperate for order,
this tattered world, they try to mend.
Opposing nations with hostility,
they try so hard to blend.
Through the thick forest mists,
I spot with both my jaundiced eyes,
the silhouette of impending chaos,
and I already hear the desperate cries.
The soldiers all prepare,
to fight each other's deadly waves,
digging trenches in the soil,
that will soon become their graves.
Never is it too late to accept,
that Death will always write the page,
all history begins,
with the doom that we wage.