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Oh, birds of a feather flock together, from East to West, to whom will the world belong after the great war? Look, in war fleets and in merchant fleets, many-a-ship sinks overnight. In the marching song of death, shot after shot rings out, in bloodstained lead.

Oh, scrap upon scrap, who can still articulate the chaos of the great destruction? Look, globally crude oil is being desperately drilled for now. Stingy the grain is being stored by governments for themselves.

With little fruit in the vineyard or the orchard. The masses desperately beg for just a slice of bread. With no drinking water in the dry watercourse. What hope is left for the people?

Oh, kind gathers with kind, from West to East, who will control the world after the war? But look, unexpectedly East and West are now agreeing in unity.

In gold, silver or ivory, in one monetary system, world trade will now belong to one economy. Look, for a short while the mass murder stops. But then the war just continues again without a break.

So, in gunshot upon gunshot, in lead upon lead, sing the riding song of death again. The scales fall, they go big now. And in kind gathering with kind, it is Gog versus Magog in war exposed in hatred.