BLOOD
ON THE AXE
Blood
on the axe
And
dark is the day
Bare
trees are blowing
And
crows fly away
How
shall we know
How
shall we hear
In
the dim of the night
In
the cold of the year?
Frost
on the ground
A
cold wind crying
Dark
doors gaping
As
the sunset's dying
How
can we hope
How
can we bear
In
the gloom of the soul
In
the dark of despair?
Stain
on the sword
A
curse on the land
Man
at the crossroads
With
scales in his hand
The
powers of darkness
Are
at his command
Who
can resist
How
can we stand
The
look of his eyes
The
touch of his hand?
I wrote this as a teen in high school (1980 or so) and the apocalyptic outlook seemed so much more serious than the general hedonistic surge everyone else seemed to be indulginging in. I was more attuned to it from the death-cult we were only recently emerged from. Very dramatic; very pessimistic. Anyway, it's preserved here as in amber in these portentous, pretentious verses.
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