After all, we have slaves drawn from every corner of the world in our households, practicing strange customs, and foreign cults, or none––and it is only by means of terror that we can hope to coerce such scum.
From the farthest reaches, they’re here: Brought by our magnetic power, Yielding to our swords’ flashing steel, Beneath our whips’ bite they cower, Seen as scum of the earth.
How they resist our clear commands! O the terrors we have to use To keep these savages’ vile hands At work, lest our treasures we lose, Seen as scum of the earth.
The Sower gathered his bag, went to sow–– his furrows dug long and straight in the dirt; countless burial mounds without a stone, bodies tenderly laid to rest in earth. In the darkness of each tomb, death unseen reigns, his grievous, painful scepter holds sway until the dust returns to its own, keen for the glorious freedom of the Day. Up from the decaying, dusting husk shoots an arm, desperate for air and for sun–– defying the dark lord, declaring, “Soon! Your fearful tyranny at last be done!” So many planted seeds to die in me, but day by day I’m becoming more green.