Lineage is, at its core, a bloodline
bleeding onward from the ancient ages,
and blood, they oft say, is thicker than wine
delineating history ’s stages;
and to know what oceans of blood were spilled
so we, Modern Men, could live on this day,
is to know all whom our ancestors killed —
sacrifices we may never repay;
sacrifices of countless men, dead men
whose hearts were pierced and whose guts were torn out,
their loins castrated and their heads smashed in
as they screamed and moaned and thrashed all about,
meanwhile, the women were raped, forced to bear
the seed of invaders whom they abhorred,
men who raped while black smoke still filled the air
from the fires and pyres after armies warred.
And those children who were often captured
to be fed to dogs, or gods, for a laugh,
or enslaved to serve ever afterward
as bound wombs for breeding yet more distaff.
What horrors, bloodshed, and living nightmares
bleed through today, swelling Time ’s crimson flood
so we may live in our complacent airs,
thinking ourselves ripe with innocent blood.