Seven the number of Christian folk,
And thus a blessed year.
But mix the white with yellow yolk,
And realize that war is near.
Because 2 + 7 equals nine,
The ancient number of war.
No more will sun rays shine,
An eruption from earth's core.
Anticipating the sounding alarm,
Houses that burn in the dark.
Meat for Armour, a leg for an arm,
The beast's recognizable mark.
Families to split in the blaze of the night,
New bonds shall be formed.
To leave your safe shelter becomes an incredible fright,
The result of mother earth scorned.
Good will be better and evil worse,
A fight for those who believed.
Twice the blessing but still a curse,
What is lost can still be retrieved.
