The beauty of this red and bloody sunrise

That, scarlet, creeps up the morning London skies

One sits naive in still and silent thanksgiving

To see this scorching star tear open a cold, damp day

In such a fiery and momentous way

But this light filters pale through death

A bleeding from the golden clouds that portend

Not a glorious and beautiful beginning

But a brazen, wood-burnt symbol of our howling bitter end.