Iconoclasm

What have I become
A leader of a tribe
A tribe who hates their God
Their countenance has fallen
A cold and bleak horizon stretched across our time
Am I real? Am I real?
The foundations of mountains are set ablaze, and the tongues of men confounded
I have left nothing alive of the enemy; their people are as a fading memory
Precious stones and pearls I have pild up with their bodies to be burnd
Not one cattle, neither the vestiges of their Gods have I taken for the spoil
And yet my children rose up to play
Tempted away by such gilded nothings, the seeds of dissension were sewn from
within
Wandering eyes found fixed upon the bust of the Whore of Babylon
A gradual pollution has caked the walls of their lungs
Breathing the fumes of dead flesh
Bones scattered in the ashes
They have sewn shut the mouths of prophets, urging them:
«Prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things,
prophesy deceits,»
«Get you out of the way, turn aside out of the path, cause the Lord to cease
from before us.»
Rolling and writhing in the mud, like unto beasts
Sinking into the bottomless pit