Eschaton: Poem for the End
Posted: Fri Jun 09, 2006 11:33 am
Felt bored the other day, scribbled some ideas, turned it into a crappy poem.
You can also read it here:
http://www.deviantart.com/view/34416825/
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In the beginning was the Word...
VI VERI VENIVERSVUM VIVUS VICIT;
ET 'VAE VICTIS' ERANT VERBIS DEI.
ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS, SED NON OMNIS MORIAR;
CREDO QUIA ABSURDUM.
PALLIDA MORS AEQUO PULSAT PEDE
PAUPERUM TABERNAS REGUMQUE TURRES;
HAVD IGNOTA LOQUOR, GRAVIORA MANENT.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES CUM IRA DEORUM.
Not with fire, ice nor trembling
shall come the curtain call;
Nor wailings, gnashings, beatings
accompany the fall.
The histories are swept away,
the heroes fade for good,
the gods shall miss their twilight blaze,
the Urbs rejoin the Wood.
But no prophet shall see his day of glory and fulfilment.
The glimmering skies, silent as the earth, show infinite signs meaning nothing to none.
((O)))
Man never knew the dooms he feared,
the million catastrophes, the grand finale.
Stillborn was his monstrous son, his Idols still remain,
The fires heaven dormant in his silos.
No, the fiend that smote him was his closest companion:
the worm almighty, clutched close to his breast,
always nearest to his heart.
Eh bien. C'est la vie.
Wot?
You can also read it here:
http://www.deviantart.com/view/34416825/
-------------------------------
In the beginning was the Word...
VI VERI VENIVERSVUM VIVUS VICIT;
ET 'VAE VICTIS' ERANT VERBIS DEI.
ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS, SED NON OMNIS MORIAR;
CREDO QUIA ABSURDUM.
PALLIDA MORS AEQUO PULSAT PEDE
PAUPERUM TABERNAS REGUMQUE TURRES;
HAVD IGNOTA LOQUOR, GRAVIORA MANENT.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES CUM IRA DEORUM.
Not with fire, ice nor trembling
shall come the curtain call;
Nor wailings, gnashings, beatings
accompany the fall.
The histories are swept away,
the heroes fade for good,
the gods shall miss their twilight blaze,
the Urbs rejoin the Wood.
But no prophet shall see his day of glory and fulfilment.
The glimmering skies, silent as the earth, show infinite signs meaning nothing to none.
((O)))
Man never knew the dooms he feared,
the million catastrophes, the grand finale.
Stillborn was his monstrous son, his Idols still remain,
The fires heaven dormant in his silos.
No, the fiend that smote him was his closest companion:
the worm almighty, clutched close to his breast,
always nearest to his heart.
Eh bien. C'est la vie.
Wot?