In the eye of the burning red sun
Cuts the single erected cross
Marking the marching ripe tide,
A hundred nations surge as one.

The single stone tower sings tears.
All along the walls they bow east.
The mats are then rolled, the spears still shine,
The horses, oblivious, but sneeze and rear.

With the first horn the heavens rain fire,
Voices cry and steel cleaves painted wood.
By high noon, the husks of homes smolder,
Crops are ash, virgins now bleed, children are elders tired.

The clouds part, a storm sweeps idle blades,
Red and white blizzards bury all in sand,
Crucifixes and Crescents lie as brothers,
Their pools share the same shameful shades.