The time will come and it will,
When the earth is barren, the mountains still.
The cold of the moon with it's silvery haze,
Covers the grouns in it's glittering gaze.

The mother of all, the terrible toll,
Upon the bones of a trillion souls.
The love of creation will die,
The wind moan, the angels cry.

Bleached bones, the dead sea,
A barren waste the world will be.
But upon the desert, in scorched land.
The divine spark, in burning sand.

The bud of a flower, the thorn of care,
The green of life, for none to share.
And hope still holds in winds of strife,
The rose of love, the birth of life.