True it is, that Rage feeds Evil,
And all the appetites that urge a man to live are twisted into darkness, in the doing,
Till even hunger, mined into a Pit of Wound, and tossed a weapon maggot into the seething chasm, feeds upon Itself,
While the gold of busy Death is smelted with Men's bones.
No light enters here; no blinking morning birds; no misted hills awash with greyed and tremulous dew,
Cooling the molten shrieks of maw and groan.
The dry and rock-strewn ground is churned with builder's dust,
And Men's "blood of endless new bloodings" stirs a grim and writhing mix of fluid and stone.
No corner anchor here,
Fulcrum-rich with echoed song, and storied awe,
Only grinding steel, and teeth, and flash, and shriek, silent in the ink, 'till even the canopy of Heaven
Would hide its True Star from Death's Jealous Touch,
And Shroud the exploding fingers of steel with
Omnipotent, Relentless, Defiant Tears of
Tumult's Absence, in
Mute, "Scream painted transmit", Celestial chiding, at the
Doings of Men.
