BY DR. AGONSON
The knell, the knell, the ringing knell,
throughout all ages mourns.
This gloomy toll, this ancient bell,
unstruck, encased in thorns,
is echoing from distant night—
a night yet to befall.
The knell, the knell, the ringing knell,
I hear it. Hark, you’ll hear.
All time has feared the un-rung bell
which echoes through the years.
It will be rung in some damned rite
to be the end of all.
The knell, the knell, the ringing knell,
it struck, strikes in my heart.
Ba-dong, ba-dong, rings on the bell
first heard when time did start
forewarning man he’d have to fight,
a fight only to stall.
It tells, it tells, the ringing tells
that time must surely end,
and building here, the echo swells!
The tolls, my mind, they rend.
The future’s dark, for now there’s light,
yet still death’s echo calls.
The knell, the knell, the ringing knell,
rung in some future scene
where Reaper’s scythe on mankind fell,
when all life he will glean.
Yet here and now, within my sight
I find a hopeful scrawl.
In letters old and tongue forgot:
Ere the Fates did fate allot,
ere the hourglass was turned,
ere the sun had ever burned,
ere the raging winds were born,
ere the sea was made to mourn,
I foresaw the bell would ring,
I knew what that knell would bring,
I foresaw that time would end,
I knew how hist’ry would bend,
I foresaw that light would die,
I knew each and every sigh,
I foresaw the storms would come,
I knew voices would turn dumb,
I foresaw the oceans red,
I knew what mortals would dread.
Still I made, for still I knew
that death could never kill what’s true.
Under the stony arches of a shrine
where crawling vines of darkened thorns resign
—their sun browned leaves fall, carpeting the floor
with hidden nettles that still poison store—
where murders caw with inhuman delight,
where unknown skulls peer out with eyeless sight,
that heavy bell awaits yet to be rung.
Over a dry and empty well it’s hung.
Ere the shrine or the vine,
ere the crows or death’s woes
ere the bell or the well,
I made all with my call,
and I knew it was true.
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