I write to you for I must
Not as a tragic hero or a scapegoat
Or one tribal outcast as poets must
But as one with the burden of truth
Though in your possession are truths
And versions of truths many
That best serve modern conveniences.

You know not in polluting multitude
What men or gods of men are these
Hovering around us even decades after
What mad pursuit of power wear they
Beneath their cloaking unravished quietness
Wherein seasons after, sleepless,
Evil goads more evil.

My people, doomed to sicken they are
And perish all; betrothed to betrayal and victimhood
And long mocked by an ancestral fault
A crooked oath whereby a demon was hired
Once and so it drew nearer, and marched
Slowly on in state to overrun our lands,
All our borders, near and far!

Spend years a troublous life and you can’t flee
You’ll get nothing. Proven!
Dreaded dreams, torched visions, torn and broken bodies
And faces disfigured with immeasurable grief
All but have left us withered, spinning
Our fatal passion – Look and see if
My speech is a worthless gift to you.

Here – come – ‘O you with feverish flesh’
Clutching your dead souls, come;
I have this to say to you: Our days
Fade away like shadows decease
Into sunset; And desperate now,
It wearies us, This freedom,
Our hearts desire;

So tell me – From this pale mist
We will rise in epiphany, one day;
That the day of doom
Is not yet come.
And however scant may be,
We’ll have profit by sacrifice; And that –
In truth lies the promise of a reckoning.

Editor's Note

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