THE TRUTH BEFORE DAWN

How thin the walls are before the dawn,

When the flock, like a rain-clouds’ rise and fall

Resounds with a peal of maddened squawks.

Torrid with anger do they tear down what a thousand years made;

What a thousand souls perished over and a thousand hearts

Bled over through long, lamentable wars.

The truth is the wounds they suffered

That the idiots know nothing of—

The wounds that spilt a thousand rivers of blood

And roared through the geysers of Hell

So that men could know its sound.

The idiots who are sheep without meekness;

Who are lame for wolves’ easy gorging;

Who will stand naked and burn at the fiery Eastern Gate

Beside the emptiness of their words.

And there will be no water to save them but more blood,

And all the truth will vanish under our hatred like a dream

Before the Day breaks.

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