The rider

And Death will ride
When storm clouds race
And men stare proudly
At their Gods

When Earth heaves up
Her burning blood
And noble mountains split
To vomit fire,
Then He will ride.

Yet sands fall gently
As the setting sun.
A wise man may be received
By a more gentle host.

But come,
Traverse the line of folly.
Pierce the heart of your Gods
With blood-stained swords,
And Death too will surely ride

Poem and images © Mirino (PW). Ocober, 2011

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