They destroyed every record of your voice,
Falsified every narrative you wrote,
They repainted your art and brushed it with dark glue,
The sleeve of your coat used to hide the brush strokes.
Shadowy foothold; the statues rampaged apart and,
History devoured by reassessed dates and edited scars.
But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled?
The time I reached the end of the day,
The present curated with the constant scrutiny of
Their watch, with fuller red pinnacles and desolation mirror.
And, then we did, aghast from the seat of abomination,
For the sonorous tones of the voice from the shadows, were
Not the tones of any one essentia but of multitude of beings.
They fell duskily upon our ears, the chants: of the brother,
Shuddering voices of the ones which remained,
uttering a New Testament -syllable by syllable.
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