We sing our lays
Of distant days
Of honeyed springtimes
In an Age of Gold.
But we the warriors work on in shadowy remoteness
Recollecting tragedy whilst forging treasures of the spirit
In a pensive pondering, anigh the maidens caroling
Through noontide's mellow and yet vibrant gleaming
For an awesome advent is approaching
Gathering its might upon the heavy wings of autumn.
Still this dithyrambic choir of maidens,
Is rehearsing, warbling, for its festival.
An elaborately interwoven and precisely draughted world
Of slow and sweet decline
Its palette slightly muted as to color
Seems in our eyes slowly now to dim
And languish, as if knowing that
These sweet chansons accompany
Their dark avengers
As we forge our racks
And craft our fearsome Iron Maidens.
Sad, yet richly apprehensive
Of the wondrous wizardry of the declining,
Meltingly alluring world advancing ineluctably upon us.
More than merely Autumn slithers up the steep declivity, and so,
We now go off to deal out savage preludes
To unspeakable massacres beyond which we must
Deal out condign pain to many more who sha'n't tell aught of it.
For now is the bright hour of our returning come among us:
And we all are ready. |
