Sit, you angels,
Upon your thrones,
Theirs nothing at all left here,
Except your skin and bones.

The surging forces topple,
Through the iron laden gates,
And from the depths of Sevastopol,
Lies the eternity of fates.

From the brightened streets of London,
To the windswept streets of chance,
So many wait in silence,
In some deepened sense of trance,
The wild winds are blowing,
From the alleyways of France,
The languages that we don't speak,
Begin their elegant old dance.

The searing pain of poverty,
Flashes through the dark,
As if all that was, was not enough,
To set off one last spark.

Second chance is our last hope,
A lifeline for the lost.
Forgiveness is the only answer,
Slight anger but the cost.

To win a war of mental minds,
Is a single step away.
Virtue is the thing we need,
You'll see I'm right someday.