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.