The storms are more frequent now.
They come with knives in their teeth
lashing the ground with prophecy;
Thunder plays out like the men and their dead diplomacy
shouting, screaming in foreign voices
of blue, white, red blood.
The rain bites the ground and grows in hunger
gnawing at the sun, it comes.
The eagles do not fly here any longer.
The whisper grows as the clouds approach
a shadowy storm is brewing.
We burn the maps, we ignore the past
Surely the winds mean nothing.
They’ve lost their heads, children are dead
Is this man we chose apathetic?
Sibilance is stirring in the water
they are coming to make us bleed.
“Infidels, all infidels!
We will march them into the sea.”