Batteries of the skies;
booming thunders, and so are you.
You, the whirlwind the most ferocious,
befit such name ever notorious—

    ever in a strife of your own
    seemingly unending.

The whirlwind strikes hard
and fast, and as such; angels of death
descending, striking from the faint heavens
to accomplish its sole purpose, destructive in nature,

beseeching its everlasting glory
that’d evoke the sun’s jealousy, even.
Alas! You carry out the task
that spares none of the land,

taking away the dearest one from another, weeping,
flipping cars and engines from where they're standing,
while plucking out the road signs once robust
and even the trees once deemed so ancient—

none is spared but wrecked
before the might of the whirlwind
the total annihilation being its sole identity—
the one that destroys in the name of thy honor

    and in the very name of glory in vain.
    You look around—

only to see none has survived
or has been left alive; spectating
the empty earth and the water
while being dispersed, scattered amidst the air,

lifted by the hands of thy maker
disappearing—joining the void specters,
and thus befitting the word, truly,
the vainglory.