This sublime firmament, our collective reality
The fruit of genocide, the slaughter of millions
By the providence of God.
They too will fall to their knees in supplication
Worship of the bloody handed one
Whose religion so easily makes a yoke about the neck
Instrument of destiny
Countless bodies, a mulch for the ground
Upon which holy men may walk
No level of abasement
No degree of slaughter, may call into question
The divinity of this mission, when the angelic host
Did create this unspoiled verdure
For the refreshment of his chosen people.
Why forever did they populate it with vermin of sullied visage?
A matter of swift correction, some will be forced into pens
The fortunate human cattle, those who came after
By industrial conveyance
Are slowly bereft and gradually merged
Into a mass of human meat
Bones ground into fine dust
By the weight of centuries.
Aeons of suffering
The last will be denied even the meager
inheritance of their kin.
They will not survive what is to come.
The end of all mercy
Upon the earth