The Eastern world it is exploding,
cinders blowing in the wind, glowing at the rising sun.

To the sound of silence screaming its pain at the emptiness,
that was once our pride.

I gaze beyond the raging sea,
as the darkness comes and signals the end of our time.

On the eve of our destruction,
poets still write words that no one will hear, of love, life and Armageddon

Our light fades as the pen reaches the end of the page.
The book is closed.