How much is unknown-
to us: Great men of ancient blood,
whose names are traced true,
through and through histories
of this world.
Yet, that is not true.
And lo’ may cruel men only prove!
That to them. The true spawn of this world. We are nothing but passers.
How oft, prey tell you greybeards,
did send, to ruin, your kin and blood?
Send up hill, through valley, o’er range
for sake of empire, for sake of rage?
Your sons and fathers, clad in mail
bearing pikes, o’ hopelessly Hopeful sites.
With valiant might, might plant that flag
that you say shall sail eternal.
To then be torn by timurid, turk, cossack,
Famine, Ruin, war.
Then to lie, rusted and snapped.
Until perhaps your son may stake a claim,
may for sake of name or likened histories
say that ‘that’ is theirs.
To march again, to tear apart children,
burn crop, heretic (that once was not) to drop from gallow, twisted tree.
And this again, like the wind, circles my lands, pushes you on, and all your pride.
So that, when again, you bury with me,
Claim the earth they lie in is yours,
when ‘that’ was never yours to claim.
Nor nation or order or theology,
twas mine, tis mine, and always ever shall be.