The cauldron comes to boil
laden with the wounded flesh and broken bones
of ten score generations.
Witches of belief mind the iron kettle
while grim ogres without repentance
circle the fire with hungry eyes.
What was done to the least of these
rises in the lurid stew
while the air fills with the dark smoke
of what might have been.
These are the hours of prophetic night.
Encamped in the shadows
beyond the breaking flames
and cries of the unforgiving
two lonely angels camp in darkness
keeping watch on the infernal.
The hour of sacrifice draws near;
there must be witness.
The fires will burn out, they always have.
When dawn comes upon the encampment
of blackened ash and ill-cast dreams
another voice will speak the dream of the future.
Animals will gather as to a running stream
and wilderness will return bright and untarnished.
Suffer this night and welcome the day.
The time has come for revelation.