PAIAH

 

At the expanse of the land of fear

drills the ground a thousand golden poles,

crowned with the golden flame of pyres. 

The sky's a flaunting loud scene,

a shameless twist of promise,

casting light on the obscene,  

in the shadows the warmth amiss. 

What of the eternal abyss

sworn to the lost wandering?

Or the pure river generous with bliss 

at the feet of who trample pondering?

Now all alike alight in rage 

and the greed eating our gift away! 

The earth's but a turning page 

drained to dust, and bodies sway.

Crumbles the heart of a burning Page

when the sun no longer blinks for day,

weeping for the oxygen age,

with no words left for prayer.

Dare lie all and 'tis home, they say,

to never have once shed a tear

for the desert, for the bay,

for my beloved land of fear, 

dug up and made of life,

now a ground for the burning pyres.