Sound The Horn

Out of many, one tree
To give breath to dust of defeat;
Formed there, at the centre of a large hatred
To hold communion with the bleeding deep.

Let the horn be sounded to the distant palaces;
Tell them, our walls have come to ruin.
Tell them our women have seen trees cry,
And their footprints over the dark trail is strewn..

Do not tell the old and frail;
For they will weep the length of their years.
But now they know; they have seen the empty rooms
And the muffled screams of maidens dear.

Evening and night comes upon us all;
And in between secrets, a violence is planned;
When the lions feed on the puniness of the weak,
Then shall the gates of hell be manned.

Within that foray of green,
Is a sickness hidden, tucked in blood;
And the fruit of the tree of life they shall eat
And pass excreta where will was once tied up.

But oh, how the hands of men sloth!
How men have let innocence try averse deathly valleys.
Now, and tomorrow when the mist but remains red,
We say prayers, as the days to your return we tally...

[For Our Girls Who Have Been Forcefully Made To Know Hate]