Auspicium Melioris Aevi
By degrees is the hard rock
Hewn with tired chisel tips,
Witnessed by worn-out eyes
Above over-taut crimson lips.
In teary bits is the banner
Minaretted by hands sore,
Fatigued by fitful rites of war
Against hell's vicious gunner.
Three decades of searing toil
Have lapsed since earliest throes,
And still does the battle pierce
Through years of noisome woes.
Fears yet beset though the coast
Be clear and ridden of robbing ills,
And though Hades' gates boast
All horizons nigh promise hope.
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