What things might come from the beating drums
Of feet stomping the dust
As cymbals chime with swords that fly
And clash like rain to pavement

What things might jump from the trump
Of a million voices shouting against one another
As the juice of life is squeezed out in strife
And blood covers the hand of many

What good will flow from ashen snow
As fire consumes and engulfs
And man sees not the face of the human race
But segregates himself from his brother