Our fathers lied to us
They say night will be over amd morning will smile on us,they said something about future but now we can see,it's all fiction, we have waited for years,our hope melt away and crystallises into fear and uncertainty.
Our fathers lied to us,they say there is a garden at the end of the tunnel,but here we are afraid to take a step for the garden now grows thornbushes
Then dark with dripping blood it gave a howl
and cried again: 'Our damaged branches ache!
Your pillage maims me! Can't you feel at all?
We who were men are now this barren brake.
You'd grant us your respect and stay your hand
were we a thicket not of souls but snakes.'
As wood still green starts burning at one end
and from its unlit end the burning stickdrips sap, and hisses with escaping wind,
so from the broken stump there oozed a mix
of words and blood: a frothy babbling gore.
I dropped the branch. My fear had made me sick.
'Poor wounded soul, could he have grasped before,'my sage replied, 'what now he sees is true,and blindly trusted in poetic lore,
then he need not have so insulted you.
But as there was no other way to learn
I urged him to a test that grieved me too.
Tell us who you were, that he, in turn,
can set your honor freshly back in style
among those he will teach when he returns.'