they scream in terror and oppress
they know not how much a mess
feeling cold and frightened only with
a purple charcoaled hyacinth

they burned in fires far away
they waste tomorrow and today
with nothing more than ugly tales
of tears of blood and starving wails

they poured salt upon the wounds
of bleeding mothers and their wombs
with a childish knife of rusty black
they stole their lifeblood like a snack

they, vampiric victimed selves,
could not climb off of their shelves
of fear and hatred reigning high
like the quivering leaves of Apenine