A tale, a voice

after many years of the tale
of the mother feeding dad's milk
it's all in white
drank by the children of river
drown in the yolk of blood
they say,
history teaches us to kneel in a circle
to dominance we offer the fire
and the burnt would possess its power
out of all these stairs
no end, no start
he suggests a road of the angels' feathers
from the fallen wings
all the men in desperation
all the women holding the child
to the golden age for the holy son
we must have sacrificed him first
his hands form signs of orders
his feet before the inferior
his eyes pierce with absolute objectivity
his mouth moves as the wind
his ears take in whispers between the mountains
and his eyes
the blue and dark marbles reflecting the fire –
they lower the guillotine of the justice for the people
and burn their eyes
he's the one
to one day the fear of the rein
a drop of black oil into the well
is sufficient to rid him of his body
and all is left is the soul
like the rain from above
it dies and dissipates
through disppsarance can it regain its core
to build a dome protected from the coming
humans can only survive like this

history teaches us to kneel in circle
to dominance we offer the fire
before we understand its reality we move forward
as if we knew the meaning it carried
to break off the mountain
to drill to the earth
to fill up the ocean
to go back to our little man cave
the men burning
the women depleted
the child crying
it never changes
we were only forgetting
about the end
about the other half is right underneath us