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..I see a slate not very far from where I stand, A slate, wiped clean With only some blots of history dotting its borders.

These cataclysms are cosmic signs. The battles below the universe, The death of soul, the decay of flesh All harbingers of a planned decimation.

Someone up there is designing a new beginning. He will make strokes on a fresh slate, with a white chalk drawing a new horizon, A new landscape, A new portrait of mankind.

Right now, He is erasing the errors He made the first time around. With fires, floods and man-slaughter mopping up us all. In swathes, in multiples cleaning His slate, completing an apocalypse…