We're striding toward the door
on the threshold of war.
Will we make it
another generation?
Or go out in a
blaze of radiation?
When we reach that century twenty-one,
of mankind's sciencery
or his savagery,
which will have won?
What are you really?
You tower over us,
yet are microscopic in size.
You can not be controlled,
yet you are our tool.
You are hoarded as a prize,
yet he who does is but a fool.
Tell me, O bomb?
What are you really?