Echoed words once misheard
Yet poignant all the same
Legions marching onward singing:
“Let an impure blood flow in our veins!”
Let this be our cry,
Herald our dark desires

Tremble, before the rising tide
Tremble, this is your falling night:
Half devil, half child

You would presume to build this man of blood and soil,
But deny the tangled matter of edaphon and flesh?
Deny the tangled matter on which it rests?

Numberless like the sands of the sea,
To wash away this whited sepulchre, this sanguine myth
Embrace your final thanatotic bliss
Embrace your end.

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