As the new moon rises fat on blood,
And feelings high run,
Silence is no longer held, and panic erupts in the heart of Europe,
And a corruption unfettered, brings
A festival of carnage,
To darken where light should have dismissed the vestige of winter gone.
Instead a massacre,
Silence as we hang our heads in sorrow for the innocent who will never now be heard,
While lunatics bloated on moonshine,
Clip the yellow bud of spring,
Leaving us to embrace the dead season’s ghost.