Glorious palaces of old age,
crumble due to earth's tremor of rage.

The tall mighty minarets, are knocked over by the winds,
The deserted den of a deceased artist is conquered by the
dust, mold and weeds.

The remains of our forefathers, are buried by the sand,
Concealing the sights, of what's to become of us, in the
bitter end.

Vessels and treasures are claimed by the seas.
Entire cities are liquidated with disease.

And yet our show is still on the air, it's quite obvious
That nature - doesn't care.