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    Friday
    Aug082014

    Poems IX

    Dark poems for dark days

    Every human generation has its own illusions with regard to civilization; some believe that they are taking part in its upsurge, others that they are witnesses of its extinction.  In fact, it always both flames up and smoulders and is extinguished, according to the place and the angle of view.

    -Ivo Adnric, The Bridge on the Drina

     

    There once was a world
    Filled with beautiful girls
    Old castles and marvelous things

    Like bridges and songs
    Blue skies and white swans
    Rivers and mountains and seas

    There were churches and bells
    Heavens and Hells
    Men who would die to be free

    Yet these men were slain
    And the world did sway
    Away from a beautiful peace

    And just like before
    The demons of war
    Emerged like a fatal disease

    So the bridges and songs
    Were forgotten and bombed
    And Hell on Earth did man see

     

    Upon dark shores they stood in wait
    Men of Hell and wreckage
    When Heaven fell, the horsemen reigned
    And sealed the Earth in carnage

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    Little by little
    While Death plays the fiddle
    Humanity sinks into the tomb

    Men stand aghast
    Before their hideous past
    Their screams are melodious tunes 

    They are buried alive
    The earth muffles their cries
    And the world begins anew

    Civilizations arise
    Civilizations despise
    And fiddle in hand Death doth loom

     

    I have seen the future in Pompeii
    Where bodies lie in casts

    The eruption of Vesuvius
    Has turned
    Pompeii to ash

    So too the last of men shall perish
    And weep in desperate mourning
    For the civilization that he burned
    For the planet he is burning

    He will beg for bygone eras
    He will gasp for air to breathe
    In the night of a nuclear winter
    He will pray for a day of spring

    Yet nonetheless the ash will fall
    The ash will fall like snow
    Like he who gazed into Medusa’s eyes
    His world shall turn to stone


    The Last Day of Pompeii, Karl Brullov

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