These intractable pangs of labour

Are they the harbinger

Of the oft-publicized doomsday

O r the progenitor

Of the now hackneyed El Dorado?

But here you are, solitary and alone

Whispering to me;

Harassing me

With the tenacity of your presence

And telling me that the child,

Like its dead brothers,

Is only a number in the infinite callibration

On Time’s haggard face.

Until this child licks the face of dawn;

Until it reveals its hidden identity

And unfolds the mission encapsulated

In its mythical toga,

We all are caught in Simeon’s dilemma

And shall continue

To procreate;

To recreate;

To appropriate;

To expropriate;

To annihilate;

To jubilate;

To debate;

To debase

And be consumed

By our traditional bestial instincts

As we are eaten up by their bug.