Clash of Civil Libation

He must be sure it is there, just as his father before him

he holds it tight just to check 

picks it up, the cup, by its handle to drink

and because he can see it so clearly

he swears his allegiance

upon his blessed mother and sisters' bloody graves

to split open the face of anyone who denies it

Yet on the other side

his brother, whom he does not know and never will

sits bewildered at how this fanatic fool

can say it is so, raving, madly, as he always does

this one, by the other's account is blind and inept

for he cannot pick it up, the cup, without two hands

because there is nothing to hold onto but its roundness

Passion runs deep in these righteous two

and well it should since it was planted there so firmly

by their blessed loving fathers, and father's fathers, and on and on

who also swore to the same bloody creed

who by each other's stones, and swords, and bullets, and bombs 

did kill and die, but not soon enough

not before entrusting the legend of the blessed cup's one sided way

It is not a matter of illumination

Or logic or even perspective

as far as each can see

on his side of the fence

beyond which he dares not go

there is always a handle to be seen and touched

or not one just as surely on the other's side

A clash of civil libation

half a turn away and yet a world apart

this cup of the covenant that binds them to their fates

and seals them in their hatred

is cemented in the blood of their kin

and cannot be turned because

that would make all that has come before a sin

And so it will be again

as it was before 

in the begin that has no beginning

and the end that has no end

another jack-booted face in the cold mud

and a moment of proud victory 

before the next wave of triumph sweeps back in the other direction