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Your belly is certainly not the appropriate jail for my sword fat man, so give it back right now! Are you such a monster that you’re not praying for these brand new orphans to ride the Krani Chariot with their mums and dads? Oh Yeah, it’s calling for guts…
“Go on kinsfolks, these kids are the soon to be cruel bastards and savage beasts! Remember the Book guys; as long as a single male of these things is breathing, our civilization is only turning to dust. Are we deportee makers?” Got remember this one for my legend. After all these years, the Gods are offering us the refreshing waterhole our thirsty hearts needed. Drink this city sons.
Ah mathematics! Years to build equals a night to destroy, what an unfair, but joyful, equation, isn’t it? Add a new parameter: color red.
Few hours later. The last man standing is walking on crutches and I must confess that the guy is not the worst opponent of the night. This is hilarious, crutches versus guns. This old man looks like a bear dancing on flypaper. Do animals use things to walk when the years ask for it? Like stones or wood …Interesting.
No argy-bargy for Mr hoity-toity, said one of the shooters. We need to come home, these guys are fuckin’ weird.
After this pathetic intermission, let’s write the grand final. “This little rat, now king of a thousand corpses floating on red mud, is certainly somewhere in this awful castle. Find him”. Brave as every man with hereditary functions, the rat was hiding behind his own children and wives. Such a long war for such a coward, it was devastating. “Use guns for the ladies and the kids and cut his head off”. Little jerk, he fucked up the end of the story! How can I get glory from all this war now? It’s just unfair.
We got a king in a small bag, a monster as described by the Speakers. Bullshit. We’re coming home. We’re coming proud. We’re coming sorry.
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We got plenty of questions to talk about now, but we have time and there is space to turn around.
Laughing might deaden us from the pain of being only men. Dispassion collared me in the woods of the Black Stone valley. Too much years spoils the glory, spreading muck on every battle won and something even darker between us.
A mouthful of crooked hearts; this rotten king, with an aunt for a mother, is chewing our last pounds of brotherhood. Is it so hard to hide from a bunch of weredogs ? Your blood relations stupidity has melt down all the tiny links that allowed us to live together. And now we are on this endless road to home…nowhere is where the heartless are.
“A wild boar has no fingers, degenerate bastard! Who, when, how…what is that?” That fateful day. It was the first time they cooked one of us, natural transition for mass killing professionals surrounded by fresh bodies. If only we did not use all the chemicals to fill the void…between massacres. Next time.
To paint a picture of us would not bring me joy and some puny kids will use this during decades to protest against war.
Could be my son. “The spitting image of his father” will say the ones who know about his mother’s bad habits. A bunch of cowards and a betrayed mad man.
This is home.
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“Tell us what happened, we are all agog!” Only this old blind man has the guts for an eye contact. “Oh… welcome back.”
“Tell us what happened, we are all aghast…” A crowd of clamourous wives who were not prepared to find us in such a woebegone condition.
Oh, oh…in this clammy atmosphere, I was waiting for something else
Braverland, never say it’s home.
“Tell us what happened, we are all dismayed…” A crowd of clamourous kids who were not prepared to find us in such a pitiful condition.
Oh, oh…in this clammy atmosphere, I just wish that I was someone else.
They see us as men to be gelded, our sons were asking for new names.
Only the gun in his mouth could repeat the last words of this child of mine.
There is actually a terrible pileup of feelings in everyone’s heart. This wolfish town gives me creeps. I know how they use torches at night.
Good night everyone.
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We rode some nags into a seamy forest. I’ve just nabbed some old friends and a dead body of our city. This is what we have called home during the whole war, but it’s full of coarse people. We may be too sophisticated for them; do not mention my new habit of travelling with dead people in bags.
We certainly need some rest and a few hours to understand what happened last night. Helped by the smell of bear sausages cooked behind me, I can summarize all these ideas in a single phrase: we’ve been missed for decades and it took us less than two hours to be barely burnt alive by our relatives.
Well done.
We all shared the same story, but mine is a little bit better. My own son has committed suicide in front of me. Making sure that everyone thinks I’ve killed him. In a spiritual angle, I did. But we are only farmers and soldiers; this philosophical bullshit does not mean a thing right here. So I can honestly blame the gods for being cursed.
Oh no…some native peoples singing and praying. Is it the worst day ever lived by someone?
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« For these villagers, violence and illiteracy go hand in hand. They are a godsend to our feeble community, great priest. »
Being sober at the exact moment these words went through my ears would have been a great thing. But we were drunk as Thyalo, and we are now washing the blood off our gears once again. Sorry river.
« You have to coax some of the atheist citizens to let us pray ! ». I spent my entire life convincing people to change their mind. I’m a Captain. It’s all about methods.
They used to look dangerous. Now they are all dead.
They used to look weak. Now they are all snakes.
Goodbye you…Gods !
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“We do not have to kowtow to a bunch of degenerated Gods! If they exist they’re mad. If they do not exist, we are free!”
It takes guts to buck the system, but I get a little help from my current status. For now, I could be described as the liberal captain of a ship full of mixed up passengers.
Destroying our gratghlost amulets. This decision was greeted with outrage.
Most of the people we’ve met find it more unsettling that the suicidal son in a bag. Are we that strange?
“A secret hoard of love.” What? This sentence scratches like an infection of the ear. Every morning. Who’s looking for love and who would put it in a chest?
A father who was never better than the lowest of tricksters.
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His father’s majestic presence, a decoy to distract his lack of love for a stranger. We’ve been made of desires and emptiness. I apologize for being real.
We spent nearly every morning haggling at the beach. We drove a hard bargain with our own hearts to give us some more strengh. It seems now useless to mention that we perfectly failed.
There moans about the amnesia.
« I promised not to hurt you ! », scream, repeat and slash all the moving things on the island. What I lake in natural talent I make up for in dogged spirit. Sorry guys.
« Let’s find Him ».
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What maddens him most is my vagueness, the fact that i am unable to explain what or who brought me through this. And why this particular journey is still so beautiful to me.
« The human’s heart has cozy nooks for weird learning, son. That’s it, the God who loves. There is nothing else to look after, I swear ». For someone who just came back from the dead, it might be a difficult speech to get into. Especially when it comes from your dying old man and that it takes place in the strangest land you’ve ever seen.
« Would you let Him find you, son ? »
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released January 31, 2012
Recorded, mixed and mastered by Stevan Vassiljevic and SALVING THY AMISS in 2011.
Artwork by 3MMi Design.
