Conqueror's Blood

"He has conqueror's blood," they would whisper,

watching the man stroll through the village,

dripping in the glittering spoils

of the people's labored dreams -

promises of a brighter future

turned to coins in a leather-bound purse.

-

"History will remember his name," they would declare;

no more more than bystanders themselves

to the unprecedented slaughter of their neighbors

whose only crime was being born

on land the man wished to possess.

-

"He was chosen by God," they would preach,

even as the man sought to dismantle

any sense of righteousness and justice,

of truth and good will

to ensure his dominance was absolute

and his word was made gospel.

-

"He has conqueror's blood!" We spat in disgust,

seething in outrage and betrayal

at how long this blood had been

preserved

treasured

praised

over and over again through the millennia,

even as our people were pushed

further and further afield

into the tiny cracks of the earth

and the left over corners of our seized homelands.

-

Why continue to cultivate this lineage

when the best thing for it to do

was to die,

burned in the flames of war and conquest

that it had been forged in.

-

"Where is the conqueror's blood?" You now ask,

and we can gladly say to you in return:

"We let it perish -

for the world cannot survive

with conqueror's blood."