My enemy is a towering hunk of stone, high and Babel-born;
Rising from the ground from when in a time thought done
It had been rubble, yet from ash to mud to rock it forms,
Thwarting my pilgrimage.
Plowing through this black, soot-caked edifice
Is why today was hacked away; but I need plucking
By what lies on the other side, the undergirding.
I wait for the thundering crash, the fire,
The blood that must be drunk, that sets one plodding again
Across walls and valleys: the earth.
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