quickening winds

whisper sublime,

 

"the future is in the grass..."

 

all the earth is heavy-laden,

laboring to bear the seeds of rape

and the stillborn fruit

of robberies unredressed

 

--all the living race of man,

progenitor to what

must be trampled and bound

to fire like straw.

 

stoop low and lend

your ear to the

swelling ground--

 

hear the great rumbling,

and for it, they say,

the great day coming

 

when mortal men can

no longer silence the tale

of misbegotten deeds

to future crimes unfound.