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Sep 2014
Give me the Ancients.
Ancients with blood on their cloaks,
Tattoos carved into their flesh,
Down the lengths of their spines.
Their names- the names of those they have conquered-
The names of those they have lost, loved,
Embedded so deeply into their skin,
That the markings become a part of their souls.

Ancients with their faces painted,
Their dark hair long and
Braided with strips of fine cloth and raw jewels.
Imagine them with metal tips upon their fingers,
burning it’s way past their surface until they merge as one.

Watch as the hunters, the mothers, stalk through the woods,
Silently waiting for the ****, providing for their families.
Hidden are they who sheath themselves behind scarves,
Spears and daggers poised to strike.

Listen as they bath in the moonlight,
Ravens circling overhead, wolves barring their mournful songs,
Foxes that keep sentry, their quiet sounds a warning.

Cower when you hear their battle song,
The pounding of earth and fire.
Hold your children close when they seek revenge,
Revenge for what has been forced upon them, their daughters, their sons.

For the Ancients will be kind and wise,
When you give them respect,
And treat them the same as your saints and martyrs.

Because this was their land,
They were here long before there was even an echo of civilization.

The Ancients are not jealous,
For Mother Earth has room and love for all.
They only wish for their share of respect.

Imagine power,
Raw and at hand,
Imagine the Ancients.
Chantinelle
Written by
Chantinelle
406
     Dallas Allen, Love and Francisco DH
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