So is this how it ends.
All those multitudes of dead, mummies and corpses reminding us,
storm is coming, like earthquake and tidal wave, such a terrible fuss,
wake oblivious to gaunt nature crying out, dismiss all natural trends,
watch beasts rise up, grip a terrified world by the throat,
conflict never ends or mends,
it's coming  . . . it's coming like a cyclone . . .
like a legion of winged Archangels approaching . . . 
swords drawn, blowing sacred rams horns, 
leading that primal charge . . . 
it's coming . . . it's coming soon . . .
a barrage is coming . . .  nay a flood  . . . a flood of blessed love,
wearing a crown of amity and olive branches,
apprising piety of faith, delivering hope,
beneath the scarred and bleeding feet of this wretched world,
blessed love surrendered,
once again submitted,
 admitted by a peaceful dove.