that tided them betwixt the storm and drang,
that flew like banners before army's throng,
sacred world of war to which you belong.
Those spires that stab the borough's heaven,
the sleepy sounds, of divine inspired lies,
the 6000 years your God has only made,
the cities to waste he is to have laid.
The shattered walls and pillars thunder-split,
the ageless torment in infernal firepit,
the mindless slaughter and cacophonous din,
that is struck on doubter's torture within.
All these things your wars will now soon outclass,
as you wrench to hold Khyber winter pass.