and mask the fear that winds like wire,
ever tighter, around your heart.
The Great Serpent is coiled there,
and speaks of lost ancestors, long ago fallen,
by the blood soaked, pock-faced, poison, cross of Christ.
Wine-choked, and eyes-light clouded;
blinded by such memories, held deep within your breast;
within your every cell, you stand.
Imprisoned by the hate of others, and your own, selfless, love of these lands.
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