Seek not the riches under the earth,
Not silver, gold, nor black gold, oil.
For there is found a wealth of sorrow;
Of joy you’ll find a beggar’s dearth.
Yet if ye must, then go at once,
And sooner return to moats of dust.
Work. Labor. Toil.
Break the rock and stab the dirt,
Pierce and bleed the virgin soil.
Blast the mountains, burn the woods,
And drink whole oceans dry.
Contrive a way to leach the air
And steal at last the open sky.
Oh, Man is bent o’er the world he bends.
He warps a thing to match his thought,
Corkscrews form to fit his ends.
And Nature, like arthritic hands,
Will twist to strange, contorted shapes
‘Til straight be crooked, crooked straight,
Hatred love, and love be hate.
Yet all the while the drudges trudge on,
Trod-on, wretched. Seeking spoils,
Fetching nothings, they pour out sweat
And dredge up dregs, wasting
Time and hope, their blood and breath.
Oh, Heaven weeps, oh!
Heaven weeps at the Second Death.