Victory

Let it be written down, while still the wound Festers and there is horror in the world At what was done and suffered, while unfurled The wings of death are dark upon the ground. Let it be written “Death we have not found The worst, though death is evil, nor the curled Fangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurled The tracery of old cities, when no sound

Is in their broken streets. But there’s an ape Out of the slime into the spirit creeping, That twists mankind back, back into the shape That mumbles carrion. Here’s the cause for weeping. Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rust As their flame dies and smoulders into lust.”