“Hail, Moloch!” the priestess cries tonight,
on her knees, and with her soul aflame,
as the priest with eyes raised towards the sky,
slays another of the nation with no name.
And on and on the trumpets blow their tune,
while each flute flairs upon its merry way:
They cry for glory - for the sun, or moon -
and worship those who preach the same.
Yet though blood has flowed, ’tis no repose,
for Baal smiles not upon this child’s hide,
And so on and on the blood must flow,
And another dream of God - must die.