This night, the children of comfortable ignorance
Sleep softly in beds of the silently slain
The lapping of those ancient tongues
Upon ankles of the younger ones
Reaching up like the fires in the skies
The weight of the world is too much for even itself
What might rise from the ashes of a cave-in?
Great mass form like that on a holy day
Great mass more like that of a cancer in the land

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS