The grass is black, the hills are afire;
and in the distance there is a spire
peering through the pall of smoke that fills
the ending air with choking soot, perilous
today, harmless tomorrow for none will know
the fall of death as no wind will blow.

The sky is grey and where are the clouds?
Nobody knows when the time is for shrouds.
What is the day, where are the men?
Perhaps it is night and the moon has gone.
Perhaps it is day and the sun is not on.
The grass is black and the hills are afire.