Where are they
now, those gods whose quick caprice
Caused mortal
hand to turn its craft to death;
To summon first
the legends and their falls,
Then fall themselves
to fuel theirs masters’ awe?
Their sainted
nation’s faithful poised to burn,
The vacuum of
their grace won’t douse the flame.
And though they
speak, that wight as we may hear,
Their reason
finds no anchor in our hearts,
We neither comprehend
nor grasp the thrust;
Such voices rise
then disappear to smoke.
Denied their
hymn to save our soul, we fight
As heroes, less
the ornamented grave.
------
My titan wears
a turncoat; on its sleeve
A faded badge
of duty omens ill.
A horde of willing
martyrs, stayed by grief,
Await the last
instruction of their fate.
The turbulence
that brought them to their goal
Has drawn me
to this point where life collides
With death; where
from the final breath of time
Are spoke the
words to sanctify our sins.
The shapeless
sounds that form upon my tongue
Can neither hold
nor drive them to this doom.
Their thew-aimed
swords of war positioned so,
They run till
they reach the fall of their prayer.
