Now we, returning from the vaulted domes br Of our colossal sleep, come home to find br A tall metropolis of catacombs br Erected down the gangways of our mind. br br Green alleys where we reveled have become br The infernal haunt of demon dangers; br Both seraph song and violins are dumb; br Each clock tick consecrates the death of strangers br br Backward we traveled to reclaim the day br Before we fell, like Icarus, undone; br All we find are altars in decay br And profane words scrawled black across the sun. br br Still, stubbornly we try to crack the nut br In which the riddle of our race is shut.