Victory

Let it be written down, while still the wound
Festers and there is horror in the world
At what was done and suffered, while unfurled
The wings of death are dark upon the ground.
Let it be written " Death we have not found
The worst, though death is evil, nor the curled
Fangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurled
The tracery of old cities, when no sound

Is in their broken streets. But there's an ape
Out of the slime into the spirit creeping,
That twists mankind back, back into the shape
That mumbles carrion. Here's the cause for weeping,
Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rust
As their flame dies and smoulders into lust. "
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