In the twilight moments of our spinning sphere,
Where the cosmic clock ticks, end drawing near.
The sun, a fiery orb, blinks its final goodbye,
As the stars whisper secrets to the midnight sky.
A world once teeming, now silent and cold,
A tale of destruction, in hushed voices told.
The cities lie empty, a ghostly parade,
Monuments to tolerance, in decay displayed.
The machines of progress, rusted and still
Abandoned by their makers, and their loss of will.
The nation’s canvas, once vibrant and bold,
Now a barren wasteland, a story told.
Yet in this desolation, a beauty surreal,
As if time has stopped, in a final ordeal.
An eerie tranquility blankets the land,
A testament to a cycle we couldn’t withstand.
The oceans are mirrors, reflecting the void,
Where life once flourished, now asteroid.
The mountains stand proud, their majesty remains,
Silent sentinels over desolate plains.
A haunting symphony of the end plays,
In the hollow echoes of forgotten days.
Yet in this silence, a truth unfurls,
The end is no gateway to other worlds.
The Poet once said, in his wisdom profound,
“The aim of life is death, the roundabout bound.”
So too, the world, in its final dance,
Embraces the end, not by chance.
So here lies the world, in its final repose,
In the grand opera of existence, the final doze.
So pray, dear traveler, as you wander the stars,
Every end is a beginning, no matter the scars.
N.P.: “Funeral March” – 2WEI
