May 18, 2007
Was Haben, Werden Wir
What have we become!
Talons down in blood, steel, and mud;
All for what? The General’s test?
The fight for our deserved lebensraum?
I don’t want it. That bloody room!
My broken land. Red bricks ground,
Each baked stone an epitaph to the unsung fallen
Corpse rotting in the street. Bloated. Broken
By the dumb angels that Harris and Churchill gifted
Us, the master race. Yet we the Sons of Wodan march
To our divinity over the crying poppy fields, while the compass
Reels in the wake of our Third Reich blitzen.
Stop! This struggle is not in Woden’s name, or the mother
That birthed us. It’s not worth the pure Arian-threads of silver
That fill our satin-scarlet cells. This insanity is beyond the petal
Of the innocent bloody poppy where we lay our dead hope.
And yet we crawl on. If you could only value our need
You would forgive us; you would lay down your arms and
Let us feel the pride of our silver-threaded thymos,
As we climb over our dead to our dream!