Seven hundred flowers over seven hundred days.
Light from the bluest star light years away.
Your skies are doomed to fore’er be gray.
Beg, weep, or you can start to pray.
Your children will be starved for a single sun ray.
And scavenge through the fields where dead folk lay.
Pay heed to what the mad men say.
Build your strength, it’s time you start to pray.
No more days, no more flowers.
No wolf, no sheep, no brave, no coward.
Man’s a beast now and man he devours.
Your prayer’s a futile and so are your powers.