The Last Trumpet's Sound

A day young, a night long;
The clock keeps ticking,
The lights keep dimming,
The songbirds start chirping,
The nights draw nigh with no sign
Of the long awaited stars.
Has the sun hidden its lits so far?
O, Spirit of Divine! grant us answer:
    when the sun is at zenith,
    it glares to admire its mirage
    in the surfaces of the waters.
    lest the night comes nigh,
    it dims behind the moon;
    strolling through chilly cloud.
Shades of voices are heard aloud. 
Bodies are no where to be found;
At the last trumpet's sound.