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As the day bade its circadian farewell, the fleeing sun
Pulled its last glow from weary war worn trees.
On distant plains, vacant honey cones no longer
Buzz with the songs of industrious bees.
The thunder of exploding bombs rains down dreaded death
In the midst of innocent crowds;
As the swollen moon struggles to peep through striated
Wind blown smoke and eerie clouds.
What is it in the psyche of man that pushes him
To destroy his own kind?
Can’t he see that with war upon war, humanity
Will soon run out of time?
“Woe is me” cries out the blood soaked weary land;
When will peace triumph over this insanity of man?
