If thy blade bade thee stab
to cut thy core
and place thy body
on the cold stone slab
I would weep for thee.

Because you reap a sea
of drowning grief
with the blood of
the kinsmen we loved
painted upon thy crest.

Now the dagger becomes
the cold black gun
smoking from
the empty sun.

Generations pass,
yet we did not grow,
so now you know
I have to ask.

Why do you my brother
still feel the will to ****?
While all that violence turns
my face to tears
you turn your head
to face the coming years
never looking back
at the black ****** mass
of corpses that your
numb heart planted
in death’s blood soaked field.