Praise the king who raised our city. Raised it on the bones of others.
Our brave king, our great king. See him wave from his tower window, from his ivory balcony, to the peope crowded in the streets. Thank him for his generosity, for the food so scarce we gnash our teeth in hunger. For the soft beds we make from the mud in the alleys. For the clothing on our back, like veils blown by the wind.
A brave man will start a war, for he is not scared of loosing. A wise man will teach his children his wisdom, so that if might be passed down. A man corrupted will turn a blind eye to suffering. Will be deaf to pleas for help.
Our emporer was a brave man. A wise man. A blind man. A deaf man.
So praise him as we break down the walls of his castle, raise our swords and knives. As he returns our visciousness with his own, with the ferocity of hell. With fire and blood.
In the red sunrise, he will be the most glorious sight.
Art by Woraya Chotikul
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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