Flying over a field of red flowers,
These wings of doom threaten.

Away they may vanish now,
For a pretty sight they make not.

The wings are not of flesh & bones,
They are of metals that threaten.

Carrying not a casual bird they are,
But engines of war and agents of death.

Men guiding like agents of the Devil,
Not like motherly angels of the God.

In contrast with the roses below,
They don't give elegant poses above.

Silent death sweeps closely overhead,
Among the roses readies our death bed.