Eye of the Beholder
The wheels turn whilst thy stomach churns and everything doth burn,
The bells cry whilst the wells dry and the ravens doth fly by.
Dost thou love, without shove, thy one and only pure white dove?
Wherefore sure! Wherefore else endure, this burning, painful Hell on Earth?
Whilst thou dost love without shove thy one and only pure white dove,
I was entranced with bloody dance from my first, fateful glance.
It was a gleam of war supreme, filled with a beauteous, horrid scream.
Whilst some covet treasure trove and some gold and riches untold,
I shall covet with ill the smoke upon hills, filled with ashes and crashing mills.
Whilst thou hates thy Devil’s gates, I shall love my ill born fate.