That Sound

A low and distant rumble; we can feel the cataclysm near.
Mad forever, wildly violent, we have lost our mastery
Of slaughter. Now, the trickles flow from wounds
Which we have not inflicted, trickles joining in a flood
Which will approach us finally, and we will find
Ourselves submerged. The most depraved of human
Tribes, nomadic, pale-skinned thieves and killers,
Will, one hopes, have disappeared, and, in our places,
(One may hope) will be the tribes of chastened victors,
Who will will the world to peace (though not for all
Of time).



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 35 times
Written on 2018-02-24 at 16:56

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