The shining white of sun blazed down,
Upon that winding cobble, silent,
The lonely lanes of the quiet town,
Where air was thick and heat, violent.
But the day was calm as 'ere it’s been,
And the summer sun burnt slightly less,
Yet not a soul was there to be seen,
Not the tip of a hat nor the flick of a dress.
The thundering sound of a wisp of wind,
Assaulted the perfect peace,
But as it came, quick, was it dimmed,
By the dry and barren place.
Ash they solid on broken ground,
Where none dared to tread,
Where not even the briefest sound,
Could possibly rise from the dead.
Nothing and nothing and death,
Cloaked the forsaken land,
Where like the charred, finished earth,
The blackened sculls of many, stand.