The Pachacuti

(random poem I scribbled in my Latin America class, based on an ancient people's idea of a perpetual cycle of genesis and apocalypse)

I hear the cry of the martyrs rising

To the unquenchable sound of a rushing flood

That threatens to swallow our impassioned sighs

And shake the reigns of unbridled rage.

And the names they take of those murdering mystics

Echo through the halls of pacifistic sympathy

Turning its sacred pillars to dust once again.

I hear the cry of the rabid masses,

Of armed suburbanites and good intentions

With weapons of chemical dust, of pills and propaganda

And western clocks to count the hours till doom's day.

Marching, crying, cheering, cursing they come,

Feverish from the ills of trampled ideals

Breathing fire to set the ancient culture ablaze.

I hear the cry of the downtrodden

As they run from the burning wreckage

Of their father's house, and the ashes of poverty

Only to wander fatefully into the empathy march

Of the compassionate warriors of the violent age

Now I can see them sinking slowly to death and beyond

Their screams muffled by the march of their murdering saviors.

I hear the cry of their victory

And like a pack of wolves over rotten meat

The victors bark and snarl over the sacred rod

Of authority over all men under the sun.

And at last they can sleep, with the revolution won

The poor of us unchanged in the silent dawn of the perpetual cycle

while the earth revolves on the whim of another revolution.

The days are evil, at least thats I'm told.

I hear those violent days beneath the earth, as they sleep to bring

that blood red sunset to our hopes and dreams

"Whoever lays his hand on me to govern me is a usurper and tyrant and I declare him my enemy."

~Jared