Once upon a midnight dreary, tired Inoz had a theory. This our only horrid chance at shortest life of yore - We are fearing, almost screaming, to be lefted only pleading, One another steering, cheering to be killed in war. "Why not end it," I lied, "this endless life of war? Thou life has to have more."
Some of us think it's a pleasure, holding evil on a measure. Falsely hoping for a leisure, or someone to adore. All we got is just tomorrow - mysterious holy meadow, So why drain yourself in sorrow - sorrow for a distant shore? For all that's dear and precious now, may not be so ever more. It's our fear that's in the core.
Fear is growing ever stronger, thou why we may only ponder. Everyone is made to wander, to that neverending war. How can this be never ending - it's our mind that's always bending. Death is not forever pending - begging joy we should no more. Life's not something to ignore.