Their juggernaut fury bore then, breakneck, on. Iliad, bk 16, ln 702
A horde of chub, toddling out of time,
marching in and out of unbalanced lines.
Terror of little lives just recently begun.
Anyone with a sense of time
sees in these wobbling ankles a rising sun.
All Chronos’ alms, gathered in grinding arms
are melted into pounding pegs. Fallow farms,
alarmed by infancy, are waiting to be plowed
by multiplying energy. New Adams, healing harms,
seeing bunks peopled and barns cowed.
For the future is owned by those who keep
their children on the mission. They will reap
a harvest who have planted more than seed.
The deed on future leaders isn’t steep.
Simply love the ones that you must also feed.