The silver-eyed children of luxury,
Descend into Hell.
To tan by its fires,
Exclaim at the architecture,
Feed of the sad, parasitic inhabitants.
Soon, with gout of smoke
And inhuman growl,
The visiting children will take their leave.
Behind, the remains.
Even the young have ancient eyes.
Behind, the people
Lay in cocoons of suspended quiet.
Summer come.
Burning lands and listless resignation.
Fall come.
High wind blow and scour.
Winter come.
Cold the night and soul.
The Children Come.
