The Progress

And those flames devour all!

We fear not the flood, we fear not the drought
We fear not the peak, nor the valley ensuing

We do not fear the song
We only fear its end
We only fear its consummation

When we were young
Our mothers looked with our eyes
Out and over everything
Oh, those wide fields of tall wheat
And, oh, those busy streets

Wet with the night,
And bright! with traffic lights
How they mean to inspire
How they mean to tell of a firm stand against time,
To tell the children that their lights can never fade,
And the words we heard our father's speak
Were a thread so sweet
It is covered in ants, still strung over our heads, across this land

But now, such strange fates!
Our dearest sweetest hope has died,
How lovingly she held us as we slept
How motherly she cupped those tired hands over our waking eyes,
How she has grown so still, pouring softly the tears that we cry.

Soon, friends, you most bury her in your chests as i have in mine
And rise, rise, rise, rise
For though the moments press now on our heels and households like the waves,
With a fearful vigil, we have turned to face the coming tides
Only to find that such oceans have dried

Oh fates, you were so unwise!
If our mothers have taught us anything, it is that there is no shame in a fading light
But instead, a pale worldly beauty
So be tired, good children
Be tired, but be strong, in a word: persevere
For the dimmer the light, the longer it shines when we are gone.