Tears, like rain, stream across the world. 

Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters; tears of joy and of remorse; tears of fear and of sorrow.

 Each speak of another language

hate, love, anger, despair. 

Comfort is fleeting

a cool blanket that provides no warmth

no softness

 It is as if the Mother has recoiled from the children,

 fleeing from them in distress and regret. 

Her creations are dying,

 soon all will be dust.

 None shall survive,

 the unending spiral of desolation and anguish currents across the lands,

 spreading like the black death,

 grasping and clawing its way

 into the hearts of the people.

 No one is spared.

 The innocence of children is being corrupted,

 the love of a mother ripped

 from her gentle hands

 and torn from her open heart.

 The eyes of fathers are becoming glazed,

 unaffected to the horrors around them. 

It surrounds the people,

 becoming second nature,

 soon to be first.

 All that was good, 

all that was love,

 becomes blackened;

 tainted beyond recognition.

 Wonders,

 beauty, 

and kindness

 become myth,

 a thing of fairytales.

 Wrong and right become distorted,

 until one cannot be distinguished from the other.

 Death, already,

 has consumed the grace of the Mother

 within clutch odium

 and hopelessness.