Harvest

We pass the gates that held empires

And throw our nets to the sea

In fields we lie in wait

          Set upon our heads

          Crowns of fate hang

          Redemption shines down and dries

          The laborer’s arched back

          Our harvest is at hand

          Servants rise, while empires are laid low, and still by the hands that forged their way

          Low, still, as earth heaped upon thrones of the dead

Rise

By highways made royal and golden under conquests

Plows made furious, drawing steam for power

To our burden, waste, crumble, squander

Our youth is a stain

Lying brutal, heavy

Across the land we bore

The exhausted dead break upon the shores

Like waves of the sea and draw breath

Whispering, "Forward to wealth, power, glory"

The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.

We’re not saved.

 Conquest

What lies ahead?

Into the west?

Fortune’s land held

By lesser men

                  Their dead pave the roads of our cause

                   Lay waste, spare none, let them suffer      

                                      Separate flesh to dust

                                      Tomorrow mourns itself

History takes

One by the throat

Forces action

To test our worth

One light aloft staves flashes, withers, dies. Embers follow trails of men worn through earth rock and bone to settle upon fields and wash upon the shores

So passes the glory of the world

You too are mortal

Decline

Gather this day

With world enough and time

Roll our strength together

As ebbs the eventide  

 Collapse

Stay, bury

Make much of time

We will decorate museums with

The flesh that built nations

Lest we forget history’s roads are

Paved by failures of men