Under the heavens, behemoths breathe
under the stars, ghosts arise,
under the moon, twisted as wreaths,
snaking vines of fume to the skies
alight, occlude with lying guise.
Under the skies, under the powers
gazing from high, sacrifices rise,
nothing, though, halts the pass of hours.
Picture, if you need, mothers grieve
for children taken, slain, to rise
as vines in vain, vainly believe
the gods would halt this. Clear you eyes
and see: truly, something within lies
to say gods care for sparrow or flower,
or dream the gods lend ear to our sighs;
nothing, though, halts the pass of hours.
All gods are deaf; and lies we weave
in arras-hued delusions, prize
great as gold, opals teased
from ugly earth. Such dreams, wise
to say, fade before the cries
that rise as a tall, fantastic tower
in dreams; though lies can ease one’s sighs,
nothing, though, halts the pass of hours.
Raise all corpses, tear down skies,
bathe the world in a bloody shower,
bring the gods low, all to die,
nothing, though, halts the pass of hours.