This is the Murder Age by Klmn Kalocsay Lyrics

This is the murder age. To sing baroque
Fine tunes of my own life while thousands rot
– Hanged, mortared, tortured, carpet-bombed and shot
To death – now seems a truly nasty joke.

The whole poetic stockpile of rococo,
The moon, the stars, the flowers, the crooning dove
The delicate discomfits of young love,
All fly apart in blows of this sirocco.

Now Death rules. Death of masses, with no face,
Miserly death, sordid and commonplace:
No cypress branches now, no solemn priests.

As death has lost all dignity and shape
So too does love now seem a thing of beasts.
Every embrace of love just feels like rape.