Apollo’s Transformation(About this image)
Wrought from an earth floating on seas of green
under fire cut skies we wake from restless dream.
Long has time endured Apellon’s bequest,
the daily violence waking us from rest.
“O come this gift of day, melt the heavens
with your glorious might”.
Came prayers from souls escaping the night.
Upon a tumultuous plain of grief and sorrow
still immortals sow their eternal quarrel.
Through war, words and venomous hate,
the god’s play unfolds in our tragic fate.
Little has changed what method brings our end –
crude club, spear or gun.
Now the petty gods who sit high on their mount
have a new vehicle to enact their plan –
a weapon that sits in the palm of your hand.