There are kings in the lands I speak of, and their gods have hoofs and brutish brows, for they and they love there traitorous hours—with root steel teeth, and fed on blood, a hundred hands they cut off to get their way, and lead their nations down the road of nothingness—to Hell's pale grave.
Downward starts their road, and shapes of death, to and fro they go restless, yet not told: are the horrors and despair they will inflict, infest, and toss to the air, and then again, one can see ages of tears, lips wailing, waiting; come–thee, the world should know by now, Tehran to Damascus is crouched in the shadows, ages of tears will come from thee, the world should know by now, you will never be content—content with less than all.
You are the fangs of the hoofed-gods, thy boastful foe; the world's blood is like honey to you…talk no more for you lean blindly on Allah, and think He is your burden, and squeeze Him into your dark soul (perhaps He is like you, if so, if He be as boastful, who then is the God of love?).
Alas, the coming bliss of certain doom, fates demand you will sleep before you outwit the Jew, and heaven be no refuge for the wolf you are—; yet I fear, should man delay, it will be his sad day: to your glory.
#1548, Written in Lima, Peru, 11/16/2006 Dedicated to the Presidents of Iran and Syria
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com |
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