The Eclipse of the Sun
We are all afraid to say it.
We know it. We know it
down to our bones.
We know what it means,
the numbers, we know
but still will not say.
The Miracle of the Sun,
the sword of destruction halted,
the sun-powered warheads still ready.
The revolution there,
regicide and war and war.
the old lie as obscure as gas.
Now, the numbers are clear
for what was once
a thriving hive of honeycomb.
The numbers we are afraid to admit
are about us, are telling of us,
are because of us, are our fault.
The wars are our punishment for sin,
the genocides, the explosions, the gas,
projectile after projectile volleyed for years.
We cannot bear to admit
what we have done.
What we do. We still won’t repent.
One hundred years since the warning.
The Consecrated can’t halt the errors they loosed,
We can’t bear to have been the cause.
So we publish the numbers,
knowing what they say: the course,
now irreversible, and we obscure
Immaculata, Mother of Mercy,
you halted our swift punishment to give us time to repent,
and yet have we pursued our slow decimation.