Virulent vitriol, violent in his hate,
erupting without encracity -
flaught infant flocks watch him vesuviate;
he devours young hope with voracity.
Fremescent rocks rained from the mouth of his vent,
a fusillade of barbed, bellicose bricks -
burning the innocence of all where he went;
sending souls along the lava of Styx.
But through the rumbles, the roots where he stands
grow a verdure still of verdure and pure -
remaining unmoved by chaos he demands;
standing up for all hope; steadfast and sure.
That rubicund ridge could foam in its threats
but dowsed with indifference and peril wets.
