Sunset a territorial red
They cried their faith into the ground
This be the blessed end
A symphony of death echoes around
Shells glide through tearing skin
Like a bow against a violin
The orchestra performs the percussion
Deafened by the snare drums
The sound is seen not heard
In the ricochets and trembling of the skins
Lured with horrifying compulsion
Fascinated at the destruction
Such is the production mankind has conducted
The end may be blessed
The end may it come
And look favourably upon the suffering man