In the light of cool August, who knows what radiant September might bring to our foxglove people, tripping over stepping stones set in our path by horny handed beasts slavering in appetite for the flesh of infants?
Might we reach out to our nearest coz and lift him to his feet, lengthen his spine after so long bowed beneath the damning burden of the constricting serpent, the mother of lies, suckling the wealth of our blood from sixty five million wounds inflicted by sixty five million razor sharp tongues, an outpouring of purest fire once held aloft by calloused hands used only to the weight of the sword?
Might we stand together, woven into an immovable wall, a phalanx, a fortress of duty and obligation to kith and kin and race and nation and God?
Might we unite our long silenced voices and bellow a challenge to the savage interlopers whose whips have lathered the backs of too many generations to count, the youth of our men plowed under foreign soil, the labor of our women traded away for shaven coins, the brilliance of our children clouded by the poisoned well of electronic sloth?
Shall that September sun ignite the passion of our race for unchained liberty, for the planting of an ancient tree that will bear new fruit, for the sacrifice that lights the way for the twin gods of war and renewal?
Shall truth be our guide, however thorny and narrow the path?
Do we decide?
Or has that choice been made for us?
Inside our heads, lobotomized by inescapable torment?
Have we reached the end of that road, led like sheep to the end of that blade?
Are we docile now, colonized livestock for the tables of parasites?
Has this long winter frozen our ancestral blood?
They await us.
They await our hand raised in defiance or limp in despair.
They await our footfall on the necks of our enemies or onto our knees into an open grave.
The door closes.
It's time.
September 24, 2024
