These are the demarcation lines of hate,
The crude black daubs of a battle plan.

Unspoken rules of some other’s fate,
Silently inscribed by unseen hands.

And whom, do we suppose, lands the final blow?
Among the innumerable rain of fists immune
To the fire below.

Forged, wrenched, wrought – an old and heinous plan begins:
Unleashed: the thousand shards of violent delight

For those who come willing to sow and fight,
While high above the bloody heaven,

A sardonic watching master grins.