I thought I’d end the day with a poem… and thinking about the times, and how we got here, a poem about blood.
A Trail of Vermillion Blood
a poem by ~Sha’Tara~
There’s a trail of vermillion blood
freshly painted in the sand – and
for a brief moment the wind holds –
still, silent, perhaps in awed recognition
of a billionth blood-bathed sacrifice
by some nobody of no consequence
needed by the map-makers
to draw a thin red line of destiny
in the desert map of man’s desire.
Anyone can follow the map now:
follow the red lines of history: roads
have grown, following man’s desires
long after the leaves fell from spectral trees
under sand where nothing grows
since the beginning of time.
The very first red road you recall,
they named Abel: it led to the land of Nod.
It was there they built forges for tools
and cities made of taller buildings
for lives trapped by shorter years.
There are so many red lines now,
criss-crossing each other, confusion in time,
not by the substance used:
the blood is as real as ever, of course,
but by its corrupting weight:
the map sags, bowed to ripping.
Have you ever bent down and listened,
ear to the surface of the painted desert,
there, in infamy, heard the death-rattle
of man’s billionth child sacrifice?
Another thin red line worms its way
a hundred ways from the back country
to where they continue to build the ever-taller city,
firing the forges churning out weapons
programmed to seek and destroy the sacred;
to blacken the skies and hide the stars:
the stars must be hidden – their light
too often troubles man’s dreams
with imaginings of possible change: that’s
a no-no. The culprit (there is always one)
will be punished. (Of course, is there another way?)
It isn’t man’s fault, any of this you see,
for he was told long, long ago
that maps were essential to life
and the most important highways
to be drawn in bold red lines – for thus the Lord
would find his way when he returned.
Thus would he know of man’s faithfulness
and payback time it would be
for those who failed to draw out and pour
the stranger’s blood upon the holy sand.
Oh, let us prey,
for the Lord draweth nigh.
Would we have Him find us idle?
Bring out the blasphemer:
Behold, the holy sacrifice!