The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills.
He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and struck away his men.
But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying stars, and there are no more wars.
Bankers, butchers, shopkeepers, painters, farmers,—men, sway and sweat. They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure roots of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the eagle and his scorching sword.
One! Two!—One! Two! clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles against the sky.
Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun to make it lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse at the eagle. The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on to the battle, stubbornly.
This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause: