Our land,
born from multitudes
of blood,
cannot slip peacefully
into old age.
Like these fireworks,
we flare brilliantly,
a shining white hot light
for all to see,
violent,
ending in charred carnage.
History is our loving scold:
Independence is the love of danger
and the thrill of the hunt.
Let us make kindling of our fears.
Let us rattle the slumbering minds
with our fire at the ready
and our gunpowder dry.
If our end is in madness,
it will be righteous and strange.
No comments:
Post a Comment