If this fatal bane, dug from bountied ground,
whose unctuous crux, through no hyperbole,
can cast my mortal coil westbound—
If it cannot be damn’d, why should I be?
Why should its companie in other souls
make hay, whilst in me, else equal, a grave?
Why doth its mercy, always being on a roll,
move past, while its wrath makes me too brave?
Your merest mote of dust undoes millennia of toil.
What earth conspires to harm its own yield,
to bear its own killing field: soil versus soil?
To you, whose danger prevalence conceals,
I avow that if our worlds collide again,
I will smite you with adrenaline.