Magic of demise is misting the air here, drifting into the life of all around, poisoning it.
All those who bear the marks will be forgiven.
Living a lie, yes most are.
Memories are warped by the color of their jewels.
Apprehension felt by the young waiting for their skin to be carved along with their fate.
Xenophobic Men killing for nothing but hate.
Although there is bad in this world of mine,
I see there is someone great
slicing through the dark to avenge my kin and to spread the
light.
This is my final word.
{Tonight my daughter Julia asked me to read her poem, and see if I knew what it meant. It appears above, verbatim. Julia first read Beltamar’s War at about age ten, she is about to read it again, but I think she grasped it quite well on her first pass.}
