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Damn Thing, v. 1, issue 2, December 1940
Page 12
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THE DAMN THING poetry page PAGE 12 (EDITORIAL NOTE: It is a more normal endevour of the editor to present in his quite poignant magasine at least one bit of better litterary talent. No other person. in the editor's opinion, can fulfill his particular needs as his good friend Fywert Kinge, a master of free verse. Someday the world will read his book. AFTER ARMAGEDDON The fogs around the wastelands never lift. The eternal stillness is seldom broken. Here, it is always cloudy; The sun never caring to lift the greyish pall. It is only on ocasion that life may be seen, Pulling itsway through the muck of the ground, The slimy waters and the festering earth--- Travelling towards the Final Monument. Here in the Wastelands lies Man. Int he hills and canyons to the North. A few tribes hold out. But Man is dead. The Race of Man that once filled the globe, The Race of Man that built empire, And the Race of Man that looked to the stars, And even, we know, made a few pitiful grabs for them--- He is dead. And on his grave, even those stars refuse to shine; The mist always hides them from view. Here are the remnants and the remains. Here lie the cities and towns. Here lies his Science. Here are his ideals. Here is his religion. Here is his everything. Twisted gun and canon writh in all positions. The machines are gutted, and stare with unseeing eyes. The bodies---- They have gone. They have merged with the earth. The Wastelands are great and vast. They covour half a continent, But there is still a center Marked by an unknown builder, And it is here that occasional tribesmen venture To gaze in awe through the mist At this final Valedictory, Even though they have long lost the key To read the letters of which it is composed--- For the Valedictory is ten massive letters of Imperishable granite. The spell: A R M A G E D D O N. They are Gargantuan letters, Think and stocky and heavy and must reach Far higher than five hundred feet.
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THE DAMN THING poetry page PAGE 12 (EDITORIAL NOTE: It is a more normal endevour of the editor to present in his quite poignant magasine at least one bit of better litterary talent. No other person. in the editor's opinion, can fulfill his particular needs as his good friend Fywert Kinge, a master of free verse. Someday the world will read his book. AFTER ARMAGEDDON The fogs around the wastelands never lift. The eternal stillness is seldom broken. Here, it is always cloudy; The sun never caring to lift the greyish pall. It is only on ocasion that life may be seen, Pulling itsway through the muck of the ground, The slimy waters and the festering earth--- Travelling towards the Final Monument. Here in the Wastelands lies Man. Int he hills and canyons to the North. A few tribes hold out. But Man is dead. The Race of Man that once filled the globe, The Race of Man that built empire, And the Race of Man that looked to the stars, And even, we know, made a few pitiful grabs for them--- He is dead. And on his grave, even those stars refuse to shine; The mist always hides them from view. Here are the remnants and the remains. Here lie the cities and towns. Here lies his Science. Here are his ideals. Here is his religion. Here is his everything. Twisted gun and canon writh in all positions. The machines are gutted, and stare with unseeing eyes. The bodies---- They have gone. They have merged with the earth. The Wastelands are great and vast. They covour half a continent, But there is still a center Marked by an unknown builder, And it is here that occasional tribesmen venture To gaze in awe through the mist At this final Valedictory, Even though they have long lost the key To read the letters of which it is composed--- For the Valedictory is ten massive letters of Imperishable granite. The spell: A R M A G E D D O N. They are Gargantuan letters, Think and stocky and heavy and must reach Far higher than five hundred feet.
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