Might man yet learn his neck to bend?
Ha! Behold how that noble race,
Doth year by year its birthright rend,
Its promised lands fast lay to waste.
Hearts grown cold, brothers brothers spurn,
The rich grow fat, while poor grow thin.
Some hoard bread, others can but yearn,
Then rise, en masse, to slay their kin!
Taste ye now my missive's fruits,
Feed on them, o heartless brutes!
This world you've bit with cruel-tipped fangs
Your dark crime's venom now through it seeps.
Above, gods' wrath in wild clouds hangs
A cleansing storm soon to unleash!
Man – A Riddle Stuck in Sleep
A grub, enwrapped in spittle,
Beneath the tumult of raging skies,
Waits and grows, little by little,
Till – at last! – a bright ray it spies,
Spreads new wings, and away it flies!
May this thought with man endure!
May we ever in heart recall
This merry creature, winged and pure,
And how it started, so strange, so small!
Whoever seeks from flesh a cure,
To skies above doth plead and call,
May in this soul our tale hope stir!