A peasant
From the age of superstition,
Days of pestilence and hunger
And nights of endless dark,
Would see a horror far more stark -
And dangers far more strange -
In our present modern age.
From every mouth pours forth a rage,
From which the ancient devils cower,
In mad desire we gorge our flesh,
Slaves to a modern, bestial power.
It thrives upon our constant needs,
And upon our sickly fear it feeds;
Taking cloudy shape from seeds
Within our ever-grasping greed.
We see the monster in the mirror,
Faces that fancy beating death,
Yet still our last day draws nearer -
Even as our voices launch
Forever and far
Into the stars -
We are gone with out last breath.
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