THERE ON THE crest of the hill

stands the Man of faith amid the snow-white silence,

He scans the sky for some signal of light,

and when the clouds thicken and the nightbirds scream as they fly

he cries, 'Brothers, despair not, for Man is great.'

But they never heed him,

for they believe that the elemental brute is eternal

and goodness in its depth is darkly cunning in deception.

When beaten and wounded they cry, 'Brother, where art thou?'

The answer comes, 'I am by your side.'

But they cannot see in the dark

and they argue that the voice is of their own desperate desire,

that men are ever condemned to fight for phantoms

in an interminable desert of mutual menace.