Classic Poem

Thus having sung of Drought,
Which is the hate of the sun
Come, let us sing of Hate,
Which is a drought of the spirit:
For this blind serf of death
Lays waste our Land of Hope,
Strangling its springs of action,
Blighting its wistful buds,
Heralding sterile torpor
And desolation.

Hate crucifies this Land,
Hate more fell than Drought,
Malignant hate, implacable hate:
The hate of the ringhals,
That swift-darting, sharp-hissing serpent,
Who blinds his foe with venomed spittle
That he may strike at will.