In these green veins flows the blood of the lost.

The blood of those who counted the cost.

Poets & coalmen, clerks & chefs.

Musicians musing with treble clefs.

 

Berbers & Hebrews, Russians in boots.

The blood of the ages, deep in the roots.

Worshipping stones… perhaps stars in the sky.

Idols with names draped in a lie.

 

Caliphs & sages, Moors on their steeds.

All of them dead, but not their deeds.

Forefather faults, fall down the ages.

Forefather fates, write future pages.

 

 

© The Secret Poetess, May 2017

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