A rhythm that stamps its breath upon me, becoming true motion a stride a horse.
Down at hooves that cloven cometh from the darkness that is beyond.
Brimstone that coughs the air, and chokes the light of the second sun,
that billows and burns from up out of the earth, blackened paint on sand.
Blood, blood, blood, everywhere, and mixed with magic,
of once lives living lived, in hovels at the tide and shore.
Maxmillian, made empires on less, and slaughtered even more.
Nero fiddled as Rome burned, and Louis says "rien."
Clouds are cometh on histories face,
she turns, and looks away.
Tear, rivulet from her eye, as her pen weeps bitter ink.
All mixed with blood and oil, oil blood and game.
The little world that is little made,
the little land in little hands,
little thoughts in little minds,
so little have we said.
Stayed in their turn towers look out, the gray gray men of great command,
do stretch for their hands, and like Pharoah, more plagues they do command.
But in this tome of misery,
there is writ scrawl,
repeated like a madman's hand.
"Nothing in the book of fate more sure,
than all peoples must be free."
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