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
