Apocalypse

Arch Alfred McKillenAnxious

These are the seeds of the future, The weary, the wretched, the slain. These are the ghosts we shall harvest In wars that shall come again.

These are the fields we have furrowed, The dreams that have fallen apart, And this is the plow of our madness, The fear that has entered the heart.

Oh, how shall we welcome the reaper When autumn shall fill the air, When all the hope of the springtime Is cut with the edge of despair?

Arch Alfred McKillen
SourceLicence:Public domain (US, unrenewed)
Mood:
Anxious
Topics:
death, fear, despair, war, harvest

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