This is the day the prophets have foretold,
This is the hour for which the Chosen wait,
This is the requiem of the Age of Gold,
This is the end of Babylon the Great.
May we who write the annals of this hour
Suspend our pens in silence, speak no word
Of greed that blossomed like an evil flower,
Of peace that perished crucified, unheard.

Write only for a cleaner, kindlier race
After the last bomb thunders from the skies,
That love survived the Terror out of Space,
And that the Grass is infinitely wise.
Yes, grass is merciful — without regret,
And what it covers . . . let all men forget.

This is the day the prophets have foretold,
— This is the hour for which the Chosen wait,
This is the requiem of the Age of Gold,
— This is the end of Babylon the Great.
May we who write the annals of this hour
— Suspend our pens in silence, speak no word
Of greed that blossomed like an evil flower,
— Of peace that perished crucified, unheard.

Write only for a cleaner, kindlier race
— After the last bomb thunders from the skies,
That love survived the Terror out of Space,
— And that the Grass is infinitely wise.
Yes, grass is merciful — without regret,
And what it covers . . . let all men forget.