Primordial

Borders swell like the oceans
Nations swept away
In the steel rain
Wounds carved in the earth
The silent hands of genocide
Map the years
Forgotten legacies of dust
People remembered in nothing
But fragments of language
Verses of song
And shards of military rust
The gallows cold hands
Tighten old rope
Young men hang in the fetid breeze
Like rotten fruit
Too ripe for harvest
They have marched us