Woe betide me! Sorrow fill my veins
and flood my heart again!
I stand now upon a hill,
and from my vantage point I see the cobble laid by Fate,
a path that twists and eddies like a violent river
a path borne from Easterly light
and fades in yonder Western chasm.
In the light of dawn I see a schism form,
the progeny of light segregated by the flavor of the soil
that served as their nursemaid.
The men and women boil in the fever of their passion
until the brine of their hearts rends the land asunder.
At the cusp of daylight they flit around me,
Iron eagles circling, taunting each other.
Their plumage bared upon their chest thrust boldly into the light
gleaming in the noonday sun.
LIke a whirlpool they make their circuit,
crashing like waves, screeches tearing the sky.
Iron plates and iron drops kiss the ground,
blood of broodmates glistening like starlight.
At the sun's rest I bear witness,
a grieving father among the wreckage.
Briefly the sun lingers upon the horizon,
a tombstone for the filicidal spat.
Woe betide me! Sorrow fill my veins
and flood my heart again!
I stand upon the hill and weep;
is it the fate of this mortal lot
to be the bearer of their own demise?
Must he be the bringer of libation
and his own essence the wine?
I stand upon my hill
and see the the valley drink,
drink the blood of brothers,
growing fat from this unhallowed tide.
I watch the sanguine ether of mankind trickle to the chasm
into darkness, forgotten by all but He who stands at the end,
He who stands at the end of everything.
