Werewolf Moon Poem by Agatha Eliza

We're all forced to gaze at a blood red moon...
What a somber spectacle world has to offer us!
Dreaming aloof, in your ideological tower,
won't you take a second to mourn with me
the destruction of the ruins of the great Antiquity?
The moon is now touched by foreign hands-
shot down, disembered, fleshless, boneless
and devoured by the stealthy wolves. Bit-by-bit.

Hanging by a rusty thread, a forlorn memory
fights to spread a message of death
under the black flag of an unearthly tyranny.

Who stole the moon? The nightsky is still there
but no moon to guide our steps, or stars
to lead the way- We walk barefoot on
a withered grass, and the very water we drink
tastes like blood, sea water or desert sand!
Orphaned we'll keep on running
under a sky that is no longer welcoming,
until our own heads will fall under their sword.

How frail our bones are...How sharp and shiny
their blade...How rootless the tree,
that nourished the sprouts of our restless hearts!

We are the last who have bathed in the colours
of sunset, the last who gazed at the
moon's splendour, the silent witnesses of its
pale, final goodbye.
But now...
surrounded by wolves, deep down in our heart we hear
the ancient voices whisper:
'Hannibal ante portas...Hannibal ad portas! '