The dismal evening whithers and the roseatte dawn breaks through.
The snow a distant memory, cherished only by the mountains.
The fields lie fallow, the illusion of green,
Belied by their bitter harvest, fed with blood.

While the factory breathes the heady fumes of peace,
Outside the walls the town lies broken and seethes.
No gunshots now, no bombs, no words,
But hate still clouds the cafes and makes new mothers weep.

The hummocks where the grass grows lushest,
Stand like hoos to ancient Kings,
But we know the truth,
We, and the children, and the flies.

An empty land, cursed by history and passion,
Is redeemed in flames by your shining, hazel eyes.
An angel born of heaven’s triple glory,
Even as here, God counts his regrets, and dies.