On earth’s rolling scrolls
found are mystics and rare atolls.
These shaped the heart of men
to toil and keep the moral ten.
Chasing the wind and the shadows
ushered a worthless taint in the meadows.
For there is left none of men
that pride in truth in the open.
And like a featherless hen
groping for freedom in the foxes den;
men are helpless floating pen.
It is beyond black or white,
and the entrant of a new light.
Man is a chief of his infernal rite
as he fades into crimson night.
And of tortured will he is a beast
raging to and fro from the west to the east
to erase the best and the least
as vile furore swell like yeast.
And man embraces fustian talk
and seething intents on a red stalk.
In tawdriness he walked
until the good left in him was a powdery chalk.