27.
History has a habit of
repeating itself in rhyme,
with reason hidden deep
in the heartbeat of the hurt.
There was a sing-song
voice to the slaughter,
some ditty written in blood
spilled on stolen land,
clawed back even bloodier.
To see the face of your father,
fearing that the next time
you met his eyes
it would be atop a pike.
Perhaps, when the tower flared
it was hard to fear retribution.
What is it to make one king
and simply break another?
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