If the dead old poets knew!

Churning and churning in layers of pain
I hear the songs of thousands slain
And jangling all my nerves with strain
Hungry vultures rush again;
Followed by that roaring flood
Smearing all this world in blood.
Hapless orphans cry in vain,
Tearing helpless hearts in twain.

Beware, beware it rises now!
With pent-up rage in both its brow,
And with restless pounding strides
Greater prey and mayhem eyes,
As it wanders through my land
Dried and patched with seedless sand.
What immortal force or mind
Will its ceaseless hatred blind?
And with softest blissful tune
Weeds of human heart will prune?

Tangled up in knots I lie
Finding neither how or why.