Human history is the
march of atrocities
followed by the generations
of generations of scholars,
devouring dusty runes
to bury truth once more
like ink-armed cooks
keeping the masses fed,
so that the battle may be
met just over the hill,
close enough to hear,
but invisible
to the camped millions
patiently waiting.

Waiting for
to burst in,
to blow away the leaves
of lost generations,
to get at the thing itself,
sound and silence,
life and death,
being and

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