We’ve marked our day like ancient days
when spilt upon the sandy floor
the breath and blood in fiery haze
that stirs the course yet all the more,
the sick’ning pock of death-tinged act and play
does waken all too frail the hearts dismay.
We’ve seen it past the many coasts
and strewn about Mars wrackéd streets,
a world too full of restless ghosts
and children hid ‘neath shrouding sheets
yet do we not in deepest heart still know
entertained are we in this wretched show?
But we are given rule to hide
beneath the false display and cloak
that grants the globes of screenings wide
and small be filled with blood and smoke
to choke our souls and blank the beauty gaze
‘til naught remains but poorly tempered blaze.
Already shrouded are our eyes
to see not sanguine streams in homes,
now hidden under bloodless guise,
that cries in silent gnashing moans;
we cannot hear for stufféd ears with notes
of ease and ash and quite unspeaking throats.
The blood is piling just outside,
the child-no-more is turned away
and joins the daily growing tide
that may the living soon outweigh
and break upon the withered walls we’ve raised;
by blood these tainted walls anew be razed.
That Generation Lost had taught
us many things, if only learned
by those who lived; they bled and fought
and made no gain; at least they burned
with want and choice; because they fought they fell;
these fall, no chance to fight, no voice to tell.
When shall we see – the blood on blue,
these colors running down the sluice –
we slay the finest yet anew?
With horror can there be no truce
and ‘gainst the nauseous act must go our rage
‘til death is dead and man supplant the age.