When?

When all our anger’s overturned and innocents are free at last from bloody sword and hellish burn, when war’s a relic of the past; when Man’s uncertain enmity presents, in breach, from evil’s womb and love becomes our legacy as Mars is sealed in Satan’s tomb, a marble, gilded monument, inscription etched with golden rhyme, will sing the dirge; the grim lament to chronicle, to rue the time-- when eyes beheld what souls abhor; when children slept in arms of war.