Redfaced and tired, we squabble and clamour about the Earth like crabs,
every part a piece of a whole too vast
and too open
to ever know sensation.
Prickled and pearly steel are the blades of industry.
They rotate, and whirl, and cut down all things
unfortunate enough to cross their path.
From distant prairie a battlecall
for all the terra to hear her
to fear her.
People of principle, daughter of mine,
ride white terror from the west.
As winding one, the blinding sun
will act as their challenge best.
May blades and battles sing you,
daughter of mine,
to sleep, to dream
of ripping seams.
May it's voice rile and whip
the rabble from the gravel,
and our people from the dust.
May it's voice rumble from your chest,
beating hard and fast as horses from our homeland.
And through ray of blinding sun they leered,
at my daughter, redfaced, feared,
and the words that gild her sword rang clear,
as voices crimson often do.
Roles are called, alarms are blared,
and through our star's stoney glare,
fall the fathers of my enemy,
for whom I lay my secrets bare.
From horseback thrown, a chance, a fight,
ancestral star devoured by night,
from dirt she climbs, a blighted lung,
Earth's voice tumbling from her tongue.
Pieces part, and crack, dissolve,
the ground may quake, but not resolve,
She speaks of men, and women both,
with faces red and fear remote,
and knowing one thing left to do,
alone she challenged kingdoms blue.
And cold as ice, they struck her there,
her dusted cheeks aflame and bare,
and behind her, distant, but not far,
burned our blistered and ancestral star.
The sun, she scalded, chided thee,
and blew through all our enemies,
for the woman who'd fought in it's place,
was my daughter, red of face.
Her ribs are cracked and dusted light
with vital beat, and signs of life,
and from her ribcage, flush to floor,
we sing our call, our redfaced roar.
And dirt in vein is dirt begot,
but battles won are not forgot,
and though my daughter lays prone, dead,
the gods still know her face was red.
Ages passed, and cracked with age,
and others' daughters went and came,
but our elder sun still weeps her name,
and we paint our records of her fame.
Content, as people, to have kept face,
we build castles steeled glass to replace,
victorious battles, wars we win,
for my daughter's honor, crimson skinned.
For in the years that have since passed,
we've painted pride upon our masks,
and blue ordains our race no more,
than rumbling Earth and scarlet roar.