Canto XI: Wicker Baskets

© 2019, Olan L. Smith

Hey, harbingers of the forest, climb the tree

Reach the highest bough to see what is come!

The end comes for you, tree-by-tree, until you

At last all are felled by the battleax, and then pray

The edge is keen, and no pain is given to you,

In this the last-of-days. From the field of corn

To the apex of the timbers, plead the four winds

Pluck you before the time is nigh. It's well you

Don't taste the pangs of the awful death planned

This world by forces of the combined thoughts in

The heavens. Listen to the poets warnings of the date,

For the people will not be spared the punishment for

Their sin's given this world. This the blight of ages come

To revisit those who think they are rulers of all they

See, but the minuscule will fell the human beast without

A single whimper, as its guillotine descends, pray

The blade is keen. Death is come, pray for swiftness,

And the head that is dispatched finds the wicker basket.