There was a clearing o’er the hillocks treed;
Where silence of the spirit muchly thrived;
The churning air that stirred the grasses freed;
And hearts from bitter folly had been rived.
Yet ‘neath the toothed razor mountains bare;
Vast plains of men convulsed in torrid woe;
Supine no more with newfound strength they dare;
Defy the porcine caste to overthrow.
A child of hardship through the crust he broke;
Privation’s scabs adorn arms lifted high;
Told not to dream yet words of rage he spoke;
His maddened roar found echoes ‘cross the sky.
One at a time hearts sorrowed by their plight;
Backs bent, heads down, ears closed and blinded eyes;
Turn’d their distress to his commanding spite;
Through misery to words that once seemed wise.
Though that was then, despair does not acquit;
The torment done to innocents between;
The beetle men and those ‘would not submit;
Tis your fault too, though you have left the scene.
Yes that was then, now misery’s entrenched;
Sisyphean resistance due to fail;
Crushed by the tyrant’s hand so tightly clenched;
And naught escapes the dark, not ‘een a wail.
Oft wonder I of glade’s abiding fate;
Does darkness spread uncheck’d from mind to seed?
And so did lovely dell deteriorate;
Responding to the tyrant’s beastly screed?