When the mountain fissures empty;
And all the iron of the world;
Glows hot on the anvil;
Before the hammer shapes it;
Into the sword of all mankind;
Wood, etched with a thousand stories;
Of a primal time when;
We looked to the stars and found;
Our past selves;
The trees lament;
As they fall to the loam;
From whence they came in centuries past;
The farmers till the undulating hills;
Where ripe wheat and trees brimming;
With succulent fruit are stripped bare;
After some time the bodies of;
Humble men litter the fields;
Where the wheat once wavered in the wind;
And the Earth’s bounty lays beside them;
Weapons for a grand crusade;
A plump man decked with feathers;
Immaculate in every manner;
Will survey the forest of corpses and declare;
“A glorious victory”;
Unspoken Politics 