The Untitled Series No. 4

My brothers, do not look in the ruins to find my face,

The ceramics have cracked,

The footholds have given ‘way,

My brothers do not hope to find me in these old waters, the enemy has picked them clean,

My brothers, my brothers, run away home, your house is on fire, and your children are calling.

For the enemy has taken even death, the Heavenly mornings in the sun,

He has taken death, and made death Himself, a replica, final.

my brothers, our enemy has taken truth, but not heeded it, has taken wheat and apples, but never needed it.

My brothers these trees will call you,

my brothers these lands are sore, swollen, and aching.

The enemy has boiled us all, in the Baltic Sea, and our blisters alone will not be enough proof against the case of the enemy’s judges.

My good friends, my good men, these ruins are flooded, filled with broken glass and encapsulated mud,

ride away home, ride away home, to your mothers and daughters, your wives and sons.

My brothers, she fell too long ago for you to notice the broken mortar now.