Kahlil GibranThe
When the night of the twelfth aeon fell,
And silence, the high tide of night, swallowed the hills,
The three earth−born gods, the Master Titans of life,
Appeared upon the mountains.
Rivers ran about their feet;
The mist floated across their breasts,
And their heads rose in majesty above the world.
Then they spoke, and like distant thunder
Their voices rolled over the plains.
FIRST GOD
The wind blows eastward;
I would turn my face to the south,
For the wind crowds my nostrils with the odours of dead things.
SECOND GOD
It is the scent of burnt flesh, sweet and bountiful.
I would breathe it.
FIRST GOD
It is the odour of mortality parching upon its own faint flame.
Heavily does it hang upon the air,
And like foul breath of the pit
It offends my senses.
