Here, hear, and come on, children, I will say,
And sing the tale of unsaid and unseen,
In every bargain, stuck behind the day,
Of every story sung at victor's knee.
And speak for pale and ancient orb in sky,
That saw the lancing wounds of earth and sea,
By spewing molten insides up and high,
And raising tides to cliffs in liquid plea.
Of golden-headed queen, her barred so love,
And thousands burned for her—a city lost.
The cold and distant orb in questions dove:
Was fire lit long before they Trojan sought?
And saw a hundred thousand secrets more,
Of many wars beginning inside dark
And sordid rooms, and far from butchered swore,
How humble starts have turned to greater larks.
Of many choices made, both seen, unseen,
And stories told to praise the hero 'lone.
How many peasants, left to rot, there been?
To learn: it's not the pivot, but chain-linked.
Oh, watcher! Why, O why, will you not act?
To drown them in your mighty fury tides,
In oceans lost, be never found intact—
Begin the final dusk by equine ride.
But it was never going to war for us,
And asks: were choices made, not choices still?
However wrong, did they not define us?
And why, to rescue us from our own will?
A never thinning drop of ink in lake,
The enemy consumes us till the end,
Like serpent biting down on its own tail,
In heinous, horrid way we ourselves rend.
The first of moment used to make a breath,
The breath then twisted into breeze so light,
The breeze a gale and gale a squall to hitch,
And gently strangle ourselves out in fight.
A blade, a musket, tools changing through out,
The hand that wields them remains ever fool,
The river’s course was always seaside meant,
Forever running towards our own doom.
The moon so watches from its perch so high,
As again we are led on same old path,
By mighty, wicked bargains sworn in lies—
Of erased truths, in hands of victor's wrath.
