the fires of war lit up the dark horizon
and jesters, without a smile, beat out a battle song
and raving men roamed streets, begging for a coin with which
to slake their unquenchable thirst
but money could not buy happiness, or peace, or anything at all to staunch
the sadness and despair that ran, rampant as a hoard of rats
within the shell of what once had been
golden stars marked not the skies of night
but death and rank insanity
the voices of the rabble ascend the hill and stake their claim
nobility, the artisan, all men of thought and knowledge, fled,
and lost their footing on the cusp of noisome, mephitic death
the cancer proliferated, uncontrollably
and the little foxes eyes gazed, dispassionately, on the leavings of the feast
but deep within the squalor grew a compass rose
the day that it was found the madness died
and with the carnage thus dispelled, that which was human was reborn,
who, moonstruck, created love, and so decreed our fate
that all men born would clutch it to their breast,
that brave majestic lonely fertile feast