Blood below.

You can see it some times if you care to. That which lingers beneath. There long before your life and those that gave it to you, still there long after you’ve turned to dust.

It peeks out from below now and then, when the new above breaks away. And now and then the faintest glimpse, will shine like the sun to those who understand.

For the world is built upon the blood of forebears, their sweat, their lives lay below. They were the ones who built the foundations upon which your comfort now rests.

But far off and forgotten it’s all left to lay. Never look, never question or find, the world come anew is built upon straw, clutched in a desperate frenzy.

So much are the lies of those who reign that the world of old should be ignored. For therein lay truth and a word of what matters, hidden and supporting it all.

The world of a lie is one that insists that the ancestors must never be recalled. But visions must dance of convenient dreams that lend credence to the destruction of folk.

For only when they are as many, not one, can division rule just as deceivers. For one blood lays upon the ground underneath, no matter how much is built atop.