What Blood Still Flows from These Veins

Twenty-six years of self-imposed exile. Now I stagger from the desert, both eyes blind, without hands. But I still see. And I must act. Is there nothing left to do but dissolve my conscience? What good is sympathy, what good is approval, when everyday I put on this hood and cleave the guilty limb from limb? Guilty of what? Of being subordinates to a race of egotistical misanthropes. We breed them without limbs and then rip them from their mother's womb. We pack their bodies together as tight as we can, stand them amongst urine and feces. Inject them with chemicals, livestock hacked apart piece by piece until the eyes we spray with poison just barely make out their impending doom. But screams can't come from throats covered in cancer. And there is no willpower left in a heart we infected with AIDs. Our axes are sharp, but we still cut them slow. They must feel every agonizing second of pain. They must know who's in charge. Ignorance and sloth rule the land. But an army rises from the ashes of despair. You can see a forest of black banners on the horizon. Marching ever so closer. Marching.