They run with helots
over scorched earth
they march with minions
into the conflagration
they savor the cup
of bitter wine

Our future is on fire

They slash the cords
of the outer garments
they tear the gown
with zealous fingers
they rip the silk
they gash the flesh

Our future is on fire

They trample the flowers
in their dash for death
they torch the towers
with flaming tongues
they speed the darkness
over Western skies

Our future is on fire

This is a war that cannot be won
by making the enemy turn and run
the way of the past only deepens the mire

Our future is on fire


In the rise and fall of ancient cities
we can see the work of History's hand
tracing the outlines of Cosmic Mysteries
as if the events had all been planned.

Who's to say they haven't been? Not you or I.
When the mountain tumbles and the ocean flips
steady voices give us the reasons why.
Fine. But it might just be the Apocalypse.


Civilization rests on fragile ground.
Many are the patches in the house of peace.
Although one strong push could bring it down,
Efforts to rebuild it go on without cease.
The wisest can see through their leader's lies.
The oceans of blood already spilled,
The depth of suffering in the old one's eyes,
Ensures that extinction will be fulfilled.
Upon Mount Ora are mystics whose vision
Encompasses all that can be conceived.
Neither Greece nor Rome can divert their mission:
"Give up the old tragedies! Don't be deceived!"
No one hears them. We are blind to the dawn.
But the visionaries know that the gods have gone.