Human Nationalists Part 1 Upon Departure Will you follow where we are led? Can your heart not be swallowed Hailing heroes of the dead With their lives they saw us fed Feasting in a world where life is allowed Will you follow where we are led? A trek to kneel, to bow, at a sea of red Bubbling up, here reaper Time left hallowed Hailing heroes of the dead. Though you would have fell back and fled I know a path my dreams have followed Will you follow where we are led? As we kneel, raise your breathing head Our greetings unheard by the sorrowed Hailing heroes of the dead In the dreams I kneel alone, yet abed Yet doused in yearning. Cowed, Will you follow where we are led? Hailing heroes of the dead? Part II Upon Return While you stood there what did you see? Humans steeped in beliefs so dear...
The Hurricane and the Trees A Modern Myth of Florida Paganism by Birch V. Baum & A Hurricane Monologue by Opal Luna This is a story from not so long ago, when I was young and the seas covered all this land. The water elementals called the sultry ocean their home and swam happily among the waves. Yet over time, the land grew and grew beneath the ocean until one day an entire peninsula was born of seashells, coral, and limestone. The land elementals gathered on this new Earth and fed life into its soil. From that life came many of the great Tree Guardians of ancient Florida, including the Cypress, the Palm, and the lord of them all, The Mangrove. Now in those days, all the trees lived on and were close to the ground and soil beneath their roots. They let some rain fall from the sky to nourish them with water, but none of the trees liked the heavy rains or flooded ground. The water elements were jealou...
Is the world bleeding to death, Or will the torrent ease? Everything must meet its end Blazing forth-or falling silent. The beaming politician Calling forth idealism in every defeated heart Has a namesake bullet in the barrel of a gun. The wounded psyche staggers From the bloodied stomach of public war, Lashes hope to darkness, lets a million voices Sway in brilliant blackness, cured of desire Satiated with dreams that surpass an age Of white horse cowboy politics And fallen walls, to an age without walls- Where the only such construction is in the mind; Minds raised to dread and suspicion, Clinging to what’s less miserable, less dire, Watch the two options parade past the nightly news While untouched youth swallow their cartoons.
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