The Age Of Glass And Ash Poem by Haile Tesfaye

The world hath raised its towers high,
yet lost the language of the sky;
men speak through mirrors made of light,
yet fear their souls alone at night.

The child is born beneath a screen,
where truth and falsehood lie between;
and wisdom, once a sacred flame,
is sold for clicks, for gold, for fame.

O modern man, with crown of wire,
who lit the world but lost the fire;
thy hands can measure moon and sea,
yet know not what it costs to be free.

The machine now dreams with human breath,
and learns our love, our war, our death;
yet who shall teach its heart to weep,
when mankind's own hath fallen asleep?

The earth still warms her children's bones,
though we have turned her fields to stones;
we pierce her side, then praise the blade,
and call the wound a world we made.

There is a famine, not of bread,
but of the living among the dead;
for many eat, and many buy,
yet starve beneath an empty sky.

For when the final trumpet cries,
it shall not ask how high we rise;
but whether, in this age of stone,
we kept a heart where mercy shone.

So let the proud their towers defend,
for dust shall be their only friend;
but blessed are those who still can see
that mercy is eternity.