Gates of Janus

Shut the maw of blood,

Seal the iron doors

And repel midnight

From the hearts of fragile men.

Flowers no longer grow

In our gardens,

And the flaxen hills are ablaze.

Send your hawks of steel

Into the sun,

And melt your crimson hands

Over the furnace.

Minds encouraged by their dreams

Are going extinct,

And art is becoming obsolete.

Overflowing are the morgues,

And the smirking captain

Sparks his cigar

While we load the furnace.

Seal the iron doors,

Place a wooden beam across the entrance

And set guards 24/7.

This is how we begin

To rebuild our museums and gardens,

Our homes and academies,

And we can end our days

At the table of silver,

The table of plenty,

Breaking bread with each other.