Swarming Blacks and Whites
I dreamt of last night,
Fantastic crows swarm like locusts
Sapping out life in a black blanket.
But last night before I slept,
When my hands were soaked in soap and water,
I think of those leaders.
Following the long lineage of what occured.
I think of those clothed in clean robes,
Cleaner than the clothes I washed,
Whiter than my pure imagination could ever realized...
Gather these people for Order, your sacredness
Preach what is not known.
Three centuries of passage from the baptism of fire,
Yet we're still your bunch of heathens ready for conversion.
Recite the oracles of tension between my soul's salvation and damnation,
While the white robe is tainted red from maidenhood
You took as holy sacrifice.
Young virgins are offered to your feet.
Convert these souls for a hefty penny,
Rack these tithes for wealth, your sacredness
And pray to the Almighty later on,
If we're devout enough to pay for our sins.
It's nice, no? Have a Black Benz parade on your prestige.
Block the roads infested by these pagans,
Raise the flag of your doctrine
You will save the heathens
You will wash them from worldliness, and replace it with holiness
You will save them from worldliness,
You shall manage the affairs of the world.
Toast your wine next to those who trade by power,
A little bit of sweetness you christened it by the name influence.
By the grace of God, the blessed are your people.
Those who trade by power will want you if it means numbers,
If it means pleasing your demands, your society of petty revenge
Because the people anointed by God,
Had every authority to destruct those who scrutinized the holy ways.
Welcome to the cult.
You're benign and your numbers grew,
Hail Founder!
Our begotten Father!
Church of Cult.
Rival next to the older dog,
The underdog is you.
Somehow, the son must kill the father.
But if your father is the Church,
Your own father pardons your unruly ways
A headache, my child
So your ancestor speaks of you.
Of where did you get your ways?
But you take them after me, says your father.
And so your father carried on to his ways,
Manners that are far ahead of you.
For a colder stream of blood, I'll pardon the brazeness inherent in a neophyte,
Unless you riddle with my life.
Get out.
Get out of my life.
I'm a pagan that wishes no involvement from you.
Your sneering revenge bids no one in your favor,
Soon, even the heathens will turn their heads against you.
And gone will be your wealthy robes.
God can't be soon sustained with tithes.
It will be a pity that those doctrines carved in stones remain not as memorials,
But a big chunk of rock.
No.
You wish this to be your stronghold like your father.
Except that your father descended from a long history, he's almost mystical himself.
My poor, poor neophyte.
A better strategy could've been done.
Those dinars can't shine a long lasting legacy like your father.
So if you will,
Simply shut up, won't you?
Stop meddling around a place where you don't belong.
You'll lose that prestige.
It would be a pity that you only mastered the kindergarten state of power playbook.
