Bewildering deaths of innocent.
Crowded streets with nowhere left to run.
What becomes of the Temple?
Crying echoes of hungry children.
Hollow men feed on the bodies that once fed them.
What becomes of the Church?
The air thick with the stench of flesh.
Men, women, children, animals, all without a nest to rest.
What becomes of the Mosque?
Years passed; famine swelled; the dead increased.
The remnants looked to the sky for escape.
What becomes of Hope?
Then one day you strike a blow from the sky.
Wiping clean everyone and everything that breathed.
What becomes of Faith?
The truth is you heard our prayers.
You freed us from hunger. From fear. From sorrow.
But what becomes of our Trust in you?