The hurts of a grim wary world, the greed of an all-selfish race.
The barbs filled with malice and hurled by men void of vision and grace.
The children who die without food, still others, ripped out from the womb.
Cheap culture defended as good near ghettoes of filth, rat and gloom.
Armed missiles with power to melt the shiny new toys that we buy, the alien fear that is felt by people too guilty to die.
The endless, vain idols of men, the worship of fleeting applause.
The dollar, the deutsche mark, the yen as bases of wisdom and laws.
Religion that pampers to self, and cares not a whit for the damned.
The elderly put on the shelf, and the truth manufactured and canned.
O Christ! These are ugly, deep stains and festering sores.
This decay conspires to call forth refrains of defeat, gross self-pity, delay.
Responses by men seem so frail, freighted with motives quite mixed.
Situations of promise soon fail, the cries of Cassandra now fixed.
In memories that once thought she lied prompt fear and despair in the few.
But new generations, untried, can scoff at her warnings anew.
We'll build a new world, they proclaim and new despots come to the throne.
The wearisome cycle again. the new god is yesterday's clone.
- Author unknown
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Profound
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