The harsh dusty sun rises, on the black landscape slow coming, still swifter than the dead air The red sun rises, on a rough world, a new horizon surging forth toward heaven! the war of all against all, the new tactic, the new terrorist, above the fray, not waiting for the command, but the man of the street, ready for the day, maybe his last free, but determined, not to wait. To burst forth with scowl and mettle to seize the moment, and steal victory from ghosts and hollowmen, giving life to cause, and cause to life, breathing his shouts or quiet workings into the very air, into being, like many invisible hands, who resist the unbecoming of the world, the undoing of us all. If only they are willing to try.