A field forever fallow now, the trees have all turned white.

Ashen faces of beaten people, eyes all burning bright,

as if memories are haunted by the horrifying tale

of the day the world exploded and the sun went pale.

As conrete crumbles hopeessly in world not yet quite dead,

skinless skeleton crawls into view, eggshell head.

And more of these abominations are scattered o’er the earth,

as though the devil’s mistress had given horrid birth.

A blackened corpse scars blackened earth, these lie all around.

The silence uis unbearable, and then you hear a sound.

It blasts you ears like a thousand bells, clamouring in vain.

A sound far removed from pleasant that you’ll surely hear again.

It’s the agonizing screaming of countless dying men,

for man has reached a turning point from which there’s no reurn,

and our damnation’s in the phrase Burn, boys, burn.

Just which direction is there left for humankind to turn?