Monday, January 09, 2012

War Dreams

War
I have sat here thinking about a lot of things, as years go by, not much else that matters, because I have reserved too much too long, no more.  So ends this reign of tyranny, and begins the era of true freedom, would you know what that is.  It comes in the colors of forest, azure and gold, on a canvas, with a deft hand, dark shadows not painted in, only light is trapped in the waft of the cloth.  A struggle to write, these lines, as so much fights the truth that herein reveals.  It is not a fight, it is not a reason, there are only two old men, debating the same old saw, land of the lawless, they live in.  Now is time, to rise on the Rhine, air is to wind, the change it begins, now and for the time coming, is the undoing, as it is known to them and few others.  In the center again, where the rivers meet land, and where the mountains are dark, and the sun never shines through the forest, there lies a body that shall soon be recovered, be he live or dead.  You know not this man, he is not of this land, his color is pale, he is from a time of the beginning, when all was still young, and we knew not the sun, he gave us our color, and our taste for blood.

When the Rhine runs red with blood, when the peels of the bells are heard in the winds, when the sky is green with envy of the sea, when the ice is warm, and comforts are small, when the fields are fallow from foul, when the night is as light as the day is as dark, when the salt boils, the sulfur turns black, the sky reacts, the sea retracts, the mountains flatten, the heat comes from within, then it will all end, for those that have given, you will not be forgiven, but for those that could see, this will be not an end, but the new beginning.

His high held saber will slice the acrid air with thunder, peeled from pole to pole, no longer as far as they once seemed.  His boot is of black, like the blood of the jack in the knife, as he steps through the bodies of those he has slain with no remorse.  Your weapons of war, will not be, they are of an old age, not of this time, as they are arrows to the bullet in his time, which is now.  You have but a moment, and you know this all to well, as he stirs in the dark forest tonight, you feel him, as you gorge upon the blood of children.

Do you know these fools, who espouse to know the rules, who give to the ideas of truth, with no use for the creatures they do not understand.  I have seen them, but I know of their brethren, I know they are but toys of a more dangerous foe, who sleeps yet still beneath the lion lying in the sand.  To the north a lady dressed in white and silver readies her lance, for the heat of the core comes on a horse.  The tones of the tune are quiet still, they will build to a shrill, far soon, and leave no man in their wake.

As for the poor children who are embattled, for duty they can not possibly understand, they will perish to fulfill the blood sacrifice, and once again renew these old men, but that is all that is gained from the countless deaths, is a bit of blood, sweat and tears.

May your blood run cold when you realize what has been told is not what war is for.

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