And when this weathered earth,
within its deepest sorrow, cries,
when it runs rivers of vast tears,
falling as rain from sullen skies,
that it may then be newly made,
and cleansed of its mortal men,
and ‘ere replenished by the gods,
what wonders would ‘ere be then.
When all the ravages of the wars,
fought by those arrogant martyrs,
leave ‘ere no trace of redemption,
but, rather, mere valueless barters,
and when the gods show disdain
at this constant wreckage of man,
shall there be another rebirth,
or shall evolution play its hand.
When mortals tell their long tales
of the blood their fathers had shed,
and the bitter tears of all their losses,
as if to honor, in vain, their dead,
shall they remember hallowed lands,
and sculptured hills they laid to waste,
or the earth, with its mother’s milk,
that their wars made bitter to taste.
Shall all the gods then intervene,
and therefore, lend divine caress,
to let the shadows of destruction
be wiped clean from the earth’s flesh,
or shall these mortal men begin again,
and renew their constant will to grow,
instead of needing reign and conquest,
shall they need only more to know.