God is crossed; and is fretting and fuming,
or perhaps just asleep in the sky,
feigning or dead even, –
who shall wake him, people?
Mothers, weep louder:
will he, that scores of canons cannot wake,
not stir by your gentle tears?
And do not weep by any tears,
for all they do is fall to the ground:
cry aloud up to the sky
cry merciless: and not as sweetly
as the babbling fountain spring,
not musical as the summer storm,
unlike the ancient Niobe:
but boundless like a river flood
cry, or like an avalanche of boulders,
weep ice,
and fire like lava!
Your dear sons are falling
in blood onto the snow day after day,
do not let anyone fall asleep:
those quiet, evil, or cowardly today,
but is a life in fear worthwhile?
and worthwhile still to be alive?
O why aren't your voices heard?
Go to the marketplace and cry,
scream inside churches
you women of the wild,
snug in mad, maddening frantic
prayer!