Some call it deterrence Others call it madness Machines programmed to strike if struck So the world itself becomes one vast dead man's switch
First, we dreamt of crossing the plains The seas and soaring above the clouds became goals after that Then, we dreamt of a fire hotter than the Sun They say spring is on its way That's not the mood of the world today
Cold hands write beyond recall, the final note of silence The world holds its breath beneath it all, a fragile, tense compliance
Sealed in shadow, words of dread Ink on parchment for the living dead A hand may falter, yet the page commands The final fire rests in trembling hands
