In the Arms of Misery.

Over these mournful skies where hunger swells the nights with cries, and starvation climbs the solemn trees, how should the gods listen, when the moon is whispering? Over thesee vanishing woods where the birds lift not their voices, and starvation rolls the hills in her hand; is there hope for hope? If we seek to have hope, what tale will we tell her? What truth will sit upon our lips? Which shall we do to bring her back? Over these mournfull skies where the fame of dead heroes, play before dawn, and the passion of freedom fighters, tell the worth of men, what doors would fear re-open? what smell would be on the locks?