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Michael Franti
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To Slake The Thirst Of Ages
To feed the ages which sup on rise and fall*
To make a blood offering to decay itself
Did cast off Mars? attendant, sanctioned white robes
Besieged by the poisons of pure senescence
Dry, without libations shall lie imperial soil
Lest it be the sweet wine of its own demise
Thirsting for oblations of blood upon its altars
Lest it be the forsaken blood of its own youth
Fallow thy temples of stone
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Thrown open to beasts
Observing cold centuries
Where no works are spared
When the gates of Mars were closed and hands chained
In the lap of a corruption more fell than arms
To slake the ages did that empire fall
For the past is pregnant with a future ready seen
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