Our intentions do not deceive – they bleed.
A lust for consequences makes sacred
The meat of regret, and despoils the deed
Of sons and slaves, lest peace be stripped naked.
Premeditation defiles our hunger,
For dreams of rage burn what omens forgive
And choke the past that stray hopes may encumber.
Procuring grief for rapine to outlive,
Our tears soak the maps of ruined cities,
If only they could salt the soil at last
So that in the desert of our pities
Nothing would grow beneath our eyes downcast.
We blaspheme the grave game like brittle gods
Who embalm withered souls with doleful frauds.
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