I know how frightening the judgment,
Those, who attempted to absolve.
And know that their ashes will be moved,
Only to mock them.
And this strangely ridiculous time,
Explained only by their torments.
Awaiting morning for their punishment,
And meet their tireless executioner.
A great bugle is in his hands
To celebrate those departing from the World
His hands are holding the destiny
Of all the desperately grieving mothers
About sons that walked this walk
On razor edge and on the brink of crime
Attempting to overturn the World
To reach enlightenment.
Standing still, inhaling the moment,
Of a free flight in the Universe,
Those who died, at least once, could comprehend
The sinlessness of their immortal souls.
Another way is not destined,
Near the edge of the endless pit,
Where the past is burned by sorrow,
And future stiffened from cold.
And icy prophetic lips
Are closed till the crimson sunset,
It’s four directions of the cross
Each ending in the doomed retribution.
Blood scattered in abandon places,
Along the shores, villages, and roads.
Those four directions of the cross,
Confluence in God’s forgiveness.
His hands are holding the destiny,
Of all the desperately grieving mothers,
A great bugle is in his hands,
To celebrate those departing from the World…