The old chapel bell rings at four,
Not a soul ashore,
An island paradise we were,
Until we were no more.

A large shell of metal I saw,
Descending on our rooftop.

They sent the warning too late,
The damage was done,
If someone lived had to tell the tale,
They kept their mouth shut.

The chapel was the one thing that survived,
Cruelties of man could not divide,
The bell still rings some say,
But who can tell,
Spirits are known for their hearsay.

I remember once I had gotten married there,
A lifetime ago,
In a dress as white as my hair,
In a hall tall and proud,
Flanked with flowers and ribbons about,
It was a small ceremony,
But it was pretty.
Filled with joy and drinks aplenty.

They called me Snow Queen,
Because of my hair,
But they should have called me,
Ash Queen instead,
Because that's what I am now, an ashtray.

Men kill and slaughter to test their weapons,
No matter the concequence to the innocent,
We are cattle to be mauled,
You and I.

We are born to die.