More muscular and aggressive,
this is the time of our lives.
Our bones are thicker, our feet –
larger. Our necks won’t keep us
from the front line any longer.
Our eyes are armored. Our manes
are black and mature. Your music
has grown flat; we’re blind to the
birth of your Lord. Move to provoke
us again, you who slaughtered our children.
In Sumer, we reached maturity. Prehistoric
peoples merged themselves with us, turned
us to the steeds for 18 of your gods. We
despise your superior attitudes. Equanimity
lies in our souls, which is why we beg
your mother for forgiveness, offer
her first-born our most prized possessions.
Not even the serpent’s poison could
destroy us. We are your kings after
death, alive inside their hearts and minds.
The sun itself shines from our music,
the wings of our third eyes, our tongues.
Once upon a time, we led you
through the desert to be abandoned.
But we are jealous gods, punishing
gods who will visit the sins of the
Fathers upon their sons in the jungle.
For more of Israfel Sivad’s poems, please go to: amazon.com/author/israfel-sivad