When nights are cold and there is naught but pain
and hate and fear are kings that reign supreme,
the cruellest wind shall bring a bitter rain,
can paradise be more than Man's sweet dream?
Vacated hearts behind the guns of war,
their blinded eyes cannot see love nor trust,
with souls out cast by grace for evermore
the deeds of rage are found in death's foul dust
yet still they cry, the gods are never just.