Glory To War
by Louis Emanuel Fynaut
To Each His Own evolves a picture of an adverse assembly of spectres, past and present,
sitting on a multitude of battle-ready horses with mad, drunken, hysterical staring eyes;
guided firmly in the saddle by the terrible ghost of grim corrupt dignitaries
cloaked in all kinds of beautiful apparel of stupendous splendour,
rich ornaments, tiaras, uniforms and medallions.
Covered by an eerie aura of bad stormy weather,
darkening the pomp and glamour spectacle galore;
wallowing in unsurpassed greediness
with the sweet, rotten stench of death ever-present around.
Passing by like a macabre parade;
trampling casually on the mutilated corpses of long-suffering mankind, foe and friend alike.
Little voices crying from beneath the holocaust,
faintly heard by the stunned helpless survivors:
"We are next ...
Tell the world, please!"
by Louis Emanuel Fynaut
To Each His Own evolves a picture of an adverse assembly of spectres, past and present,
sitting on a multitude of battle-ready horses with mad, drunken, hysterical staring eyes;
guided firmly in the saddle by the terrible ghost of grim corrupt dignitaries
cloaked in all kinds of beautiful apparel of stupendous splendour,
rich ornaments, tiaras, uniforms and medallions.
Covered by an eerie aura of bad stormy weather,
darkening the pomp and glamour spectacle galore;
wallowing in unsurpassed greediness
with the sweet, rotten stench of death ever-present around.
Passing by like a macabre parade;
trampling casually on the mutilated corpses of long-suffering mankind, foe and friend alike.
Little voices crying from beneath the holocaust,
faintly heard by the stunned helpless survivors:
"We are next ...
Tell the world, please!"
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