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.