A single, dull cloud hangs in the air -
From it falls a gentle trickle of
Tiny, infant droplets; cold to the touch
As they meet their fate too soon.
The ground chatters and murmurs
As the stream of corpses are joined
By their brothers and sisters:
The final resting place.
The conversation of the dead
Is drowned-out by the spluttering
And roaring of a machine;
Ploughing through the grave it sends
To the sky a wall of bodies -
Souls hissing a cry to the heavens -
And like hammer on anvil
Fall crashing to the ground.
The cloud grows darker. Lost souls
Gather and crash and smash in a display of
Chaos; replacing the infants are broad,
Burly figures throwing themselves
Angrily to the ground; the stream has gathered
Pace into a rampant flood – the roar of
The gods bringing flashes and jolts darting
And stabbing at the earth.
A tug-of-war of fatal consequence -
The highest wager; the machine, screaming,
Struggles against the heavens.
Stopped in its tracks it jolts and coughs and
Splutters, and letting out a blood-curdling
Scream is silent. Now the infants are
Forever joined by a giant – humbled and tired.
Rest, young ones. Rest.
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