Hurry through the carnage in the evening of the hour
Where every little property
Condemned by their vision
Cannot help but shatter with the breaking of the light
When the people there grasp fragments of the truth withheld within
Which blow up in their face with blood
And calls jackals with its scent:
“hear the Smoke!
taste the Fire!
feel the Ash!
Still these riots burble through the cracks of history,
Smashing doors of peace that were rotting steadily
Until the land’s deserted, spared for our unbuilding hands”
Morning's Early Dark 