Victory celebrated oceans away.
A deathly rising, with the sun.
Champagne uncorked, like shots fired.
Sparkling wine poured into tall glasses,
Flowing like spilt blood.
A celebration is in order.
A foe has been disposed of, it seems.
And bloodlike, champagne spills unto red fabric, silk,
It stains it with the pattern of a maze.
Like a computer chip, or concentration camp.
With the rising of the sun, there is celebration, oceans away, with flowing champaign.
A dawn rising, cements itself, as cross and green crescent is treaded under foot,
And the sky reddens, like a flag or like blood.
And the champagne spreads across a map,
On every key point, it rests.
Conquest will not be needed,
But libations, of wine and blood, flow nonetheless,
In celebration of a long dead penman god,
Whose vision guides the blood rising on land and sea, and a spider silk network, throughout East and West, loyal yet, as seeds.
A new Venice and a new Rome. And a new road, in silk, laid fresh.
And celebration is had, a harvest is wrought,
And blood pours over the cold steel produce.
And terror treads quietly, night and day, in full sight of all who see.
A celebration is had, and sacrifices are made,
Perhaps of you, as of them, perhaps just of your soul, and mine.