blood flows in ditches on the road from rome
who are the gods
that call men home
to vacant deaths on slave-made stone
where are their seats at the table of the dead
the banquet prepared
the men well fed
who speaks the prayer and breaks the bread
the empty chamber can hold no more
what more beyond sour sweat and blood
must stain the teeth
of their ancient brood
must gild the mildew on their putrid food
the empty chamber is never full
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