How will the pidgins take to the news that we turned their homes to dust?
And how will the sirens scream in the distance
as plumes of smoke erupt?
In a world once beautiful
Cities cry and embers fly as ashes turn to dust.
When did we decide that such a glorious prize was no longer useful to us?
Perfectly crafted, oh so beautifully mapped and for some reason that still wasn't enough.
Silent serenity no longer obtainable in a world destroyed by us.
How will the pidgins take to the news that we turned their homes to dust?
In the end the pidgins will silently sing through the smoke as their vocals go rasp.
And the last carols will not be heard over the sounds of people's last gasp.
