The morning after,
the darkest of days
Bring the bluest of skies, filled with disaster
With ripples that start a new phase.
The dust finally disappearing
and the wind whistling
upon the green hills a clearing
and the hunters whittling.
A new world arises.
Thrones itself on the ashes,
looking down on us, despises.
Dreams built on flashes.
So comes the morning after
Skies filled disaster.