The Mother’s Tragedy

38 THE FATAL FORCE In the ways of the East and the West Whence the night and the day are discrowned, We pass with the beat of his breast, And the breath of his crying is bound. Unto Toun, the low Lord of the West, let the noise of our chant be the breath Proclaiming him Death! In the ways of the depth and the height, Where the multitude stars are at ease, There is music and terrible light, And the violent song of the seas. Unto Mou, the most powerful Lord of the South, let our worship declare Him Lord of the Air. In the mutable fields that are sown Of a seed that is whiter than noon, Whose harvest is beaten and blown By the magical rays of the moon, In the caverns and wharves of the wind, in the desolate seas of the air, Revolveth our prayer. In the sands and the desert of death, In the horrible flowerless lands, In the fields that the rain and the breath Of the sun make as gold as the sands With ripening wheat, in the earth, in the infinite realm of its seed, The hearts of us bleed.