Our heroes and our demons,
Are easily the same men,
When the glory of the victor,
Grants the right of history;
Not to read it,
But write it in the blood of an enemy.
Revolution and terrorism
Running hand in hand.
Can’t you see this freedom fight
For what it really is?
A battles not for freedom,
But to write the world in your image.
These demons we craft,
Forged from our brother’s flesh,
We’re breeding hate,
When all he wants,
Is to live and love,
Till the land and start a family.
Never have we fought a man,
And seen him for what he is,
He must be a traitor,
A diabolic anarchist,
Yet to those he lives for,
No truer ascent to the divine could be found,
Than this staunch defender of their wives.
Heretics they’re dubbed,
When they’re true to their creed,
And a consort of the devil,
When such a word is alien to his ears.
He fights with a different god in his heart,
So his war must be a crusade.
Why can’t a soldier be just a young man,
Forced to dance to the bureaucrat’s tunes?
Why must we tarnish his memory,
With such vile thoughts as insurgency
When our very empire was cast in traitorous mutiny?