A Glimpse of the Apocalypse
The sacred heights where snowy quiet slept Have softened into sorrow, stone, and clay; The ancient frost that guarded peaks has wept, And turned the living mountain face away. Along the floor where narrow torrents wound, We drove our iron spikes and poured our greed, We hollowed out the belly of the ground To feed a distant, never-sated need. Then broke the gorge—no gentle warning bell, No mercy from the heavens, fierce and grey— A roaring tide of mud and soot from hell Swept all our fragile world of steel away. It crushed the bridge, it tore the hillside raw, It drowned the humming engines in the deep; And kneeling down before unyielding law, The valley had no tears left now to weep. Where are our brethren who had done no wrong? The gentle hands that tilled the terraced loam, The silent laborer whose shift was long, The weary pilgrim walking toward his home? Their desperate cries were swallowed by the roar, Choked out in darkness by the slurry’s weight; No t...