Why is the voice of the youth dead
Broken, once jovial
It lingers on blasphemy
A shadow draped on magnificence
Translucent, redolent of death
Her wailing echoes and I feel the madness
It edges forth, it writhes in front of me
A burlesque of lunacy
Why do the chords of madness quake
The trembling unceasing
Tones, hollow, her soul shudders
I can hear her dying
Fluttering towards the cliff of insanity
In the white-washed rooms of early graves
Of infants felled by mental rot
Hers is the lost generation
And just as the arms and legs of countrymen
Amputated to feed a machination of war
Her heart is detached, no feeling, numb to the finer things
Hers are the blunt nuances, the faint turn of phrase
That makes one wonder, is our purpose to toil
I cleaved and cleaved into her
A breathless sigh of sinew
And I found no soul
No word or clue
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