What is it I have seen beyond our lust?
A sealed sarcophagus of torpid stone.
The future has no rain to cleanse the dust,
Nor air to stir the linin from the bone.
How heat, and all his pestilential court –
Exhaustion, Thirst, mute Apathy that numbs,
Will caper to the music Hunger brought,
The steady beat of filling oil drums.
What I have seen is not a story told.
The yoking of desire may still bring rain,
To wreathe our bones in garlands green and gold,
And spare our kin an unpaid debt of pain.

And still the drums would threaten every day,
And still our hope may falter on the way.