Era Vulgaris

In the midst of prophecy
the atheist sheds a tear that falls,
falls with the dawn of a curse fulfilled.

                Our beloved Sol,
                who once fed and nurtured trees,
                now shines down in mockery
                upon the parched gray Earth.

                Bodies, gaunt and languid, labor
                to live in air thick with murk
                yet thin.

In the midst of prophecy
trees melt and wolves bay
in the realm of a dog's day.

                Rivers—dried blood banks—
                yield up their fossils and sterile,
                muddy beds to dead gods.

                The Land fills with a choking stench:
                carrion, parasites,
                pestilence plague us.

In the midst of prophecy
Man's folly becomes a burning sword
tempered by the white light
of a moth's flame.