If the sea is scarlet yellow,
and the world is now orange pinks,
does this mean a cat can bellow,
and the colour of gold then stinks?

If my own thoughts are deepest blue,
with fluctuating highs and lows,
does this mean, red of Irish stew
should smell of purple up my nose?

Tomorrow’s streaks are silver blues,
And black sun shines, within my ears,
when Arabs go to live near Jews,
smell scarlet death, and widows tears.

Does it mean, land that runs with gold,
smells of money stained red with blood?
When virgin’s vow has then been sold,
and voice of heroes dies in mud?

Oh God! How this world should now shake,
for hand that put all folk on Earth,
will stand no more; will send a quake,
to crush this sphere of no more worth.