The forest of self is all swept away,
Trounced by an orange flaming will-force
Gutted and blackened to an ashy close
All ways and ends of this being’s story.
The bamboo and banyan both made food,
Leaving dying ember to mourn in smoke,
The pacts between life and earth all broke
Engendering this field perchance forgot by God.
What seed may dare this blistered soil,
Would the clouds grieve in pouring rain,
Would its sap halt and heal the fiery pain,
Oh the queries I inherit for my pondering sole.
Fly, vain cherub, to the easy high heavens,
Venture not the borders of this mortal air
For dark things have made earth a lair
For their vile escapades and crude violence.
Tell Him O cherub, make a feeble case,
For me who mans the dreaded gate,
Barring by my body a direr fate
That seeks this earth-story to erase.
Tell Him O cherub, tell that Golden Sun,
I shall hold my oath till His victory is won.