Every time the trumpet sounds, 

the tumult in the clouds, 

has left me here, 

upon the ground

deaf in tattered shrouds.

I wake below a jaundiced sky, 

where murderous crows rejoice

and watch them flap their hoary wings

and bray immortal voice.

Slinking through the shadows, I, 

slip below the ground, 

as if in each darkling plain 

an ancient gate is found.

To ward off light and feathers bright,

I must hide away, 

and wait until the last hurrah!

The human's judgement day.

Descending angels show their place

with blank and interstellar face

bring their trumpets to the Earth.

Then I shall feast on all that light

as I place them in my hearth!