Prayer of the Conquerors
On black, heaving horses
We trample their corn and their dusty paths
We storm their huts and smash their baskets
And put to the sword their bloody fruit
Ours are their labors
The seeds in their bellies
The fates that befall them
And their every morning sun.
Prayer of the Vanquished
We bare our palms and our backs to you
And long to forget our names
Our homes are your homes
And we sleep under your stars.
We ache from carrying our chains
With resignation we suckle your young
And watch your mighty lungs fill with air
Because we must not look into your eyes.