A grey visage of a temple seen beyond
The intemperate brood of an occult magic;
Its deity a vulturous Demon, not a God,
On a pedestal mounted of mortal death.
It has dropped a contagion into the groping night,
It is stamped of its malignant will.
Dire the consequences seem if ventured against,
Men nothing but impotent draw a blank still.
It has spread far and wide into reason’s sphere,
Its mouthpiece science calling for its doomsday imminent.
Why these despairs and deaths the human hearts wonder,
Seek under the sun a dubious cure for their bodies sundered.
The Ancients knew of it, the same poison before the nectar,
But fear not, for my Paramour churns the ocean now and is here.