Lost by Intention.

FireThe worst genocides are the ones we have never been made aware of.

There are people, cultures, and voices that are not remembered in history, but rather in the dreams of men their echos are still heard.

Those of the old blood, dying races still call to each other across the expanse of space and time; their souls cry for recognition, and perhaps, retribution.

In the evening of their existence, those few who remain piece together their shattered histories and still attempt to sing the ancient songs though no one can recall the meanings of the words they intone.

They are the lost and forgotten; the beautiful strangers, the good people, the fair people, those of the wilds and of the wood. The plow and the sword- and their grand-children’s spirits continue to die by inches by the same forces that destroyed their entire ancestry.

A random poem I wrote sometime around 2009 and just found in an old journal.

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