Standing alone amongst ruins of rubble,
Waits a little angel with eyes expressing fear.
She wears a dress of shining so light and clear,
And in her palm she holds her teddy so tight,
Whilst scarlet skies turn black to herald trouble.
Flames fly high over her raven crown without care,
Scorching grim ground beneath her feet.
But this is no angel that any army can defeat,
She'll break bullets with breath of a terrified sound,
And she'll tame those who torment with her stare.
Standing alone amongst wreckage of war,
Sings a little angel with hands howling pain.
She walks in boots of mourning so brash and vain,
And in her gaze she wields her hate so harsh,
Whilst grey graves turn red to blind disaster.
Explosions erupt low under her toes pale by pity,
Burning stagnant skin revealing her mystery.
But this is no angel that anarchy will have victory,
She'll crack courage with cries of a mortified sin,
And she'll humble those who hurt with her ferocity.
Standing alone amongst concrete of carnage,
Haunts a little angel with bones bonding fast.
She talks by riddles of warning so primal and aghast,
And in her mind she locks her despair so dismal,
Whilst green grasses turn white to subdue rage.
Terror travels far beside her life horrid in hell,
Damning atrophied ambience inside her spirit.
But this is no angel that anger can ever visit,
She'll taunt time with tears of a petrified silence,
And she'll doom those who despair with her yell.