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I could not see them as they once were. Tall, magnificent beasts of burden awakening in the cracks of dawn to stretch and bellow out the old language. Long sinewy arms muscled tightly like knots in a tree, hard clay feet shaped by centuries of nomadic entanglements that told the story of the burgeoning world. Those cut, distinguished faces marked with silence, stoic in their hushed tones and brawny bronze skin; kissed by the sun, nourished by gales and crystal waters separating the badlands from the tented homes. Their culture ripped from them to partake in what the new blood called “assimilation,” as if the passed down ways were something to scoff at and were in need of adjustment.

Those of the land fought those of the gun; brothers and sisters committing spiritual treason fluently. Gritted teeth, armed to the teeth, tooth and nail brawls leaving earth asunder and blood stained soil growing plants of death, seeds of hate, diaphanous flowers drenched in dark brood. Swords and spears clang creating echoes on the wind, every battle a harangue on the silence of nature. Reverberating violence.

Culture shocked and uprooted for the new plantation. Agriculture economics sewing seeds of excessive pride and hubristic ignorance; gun-toting pirates stealing and cultivating new world with sweat and blood, taking affinity and merging their story with the land, it belongs to them, always has. They are but the titans against the growing gods of need and desire. Destiny by the fist still attains the goal. End results matter, the means are blurred by History and men’s minds.

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