Over the massive easterly ridge, I see thousands of soldiers,
in splendid golden helmets, marching down the slope pushing
shadows, the residue of night, in front of them.
There is a momentary lull as a wayward cloud blocks the sun,
but the attack resumes and soon the army of the new empire
vanquish the whole valley; except perhaps in deep caves.
We are the new rulers; they boast we are the new reality, ah
this hubris do they not read history? Up from deep caves, like
unexplored thoughts, mutiny will come and darken their glory.
Helmets will rust; shiny buttons fall off un-starched uniforms;
when the afternoon shadows get longer, they try to rouse as
the setting sun paints clouds in a bloodthirsty hue; alas, too late.
At dawn the new empire’s army will be coming down the ridge
damning the old order into the long cold night of history.