Ballad of the Stranger

I am the stranger, I am the one
Born by the night on the glen
Four legs, two legs, grey death to come
Stalking the houses of men

Silver they shot at me, silver and pride
Thinking that dawn will come soon
Bullets I gather, plucked out of my side
Offered as pearls to the moon

Down to the village I sing my old song
‘Who will you push through the door?
Who is the innocent? Who is the wronged?
Whose is the blood on the floor?’

Under their windows I howl through the night
‘Bring me each one with a heart!’
Clutching their riches, huddled in fright,
Thinking they know where to start

Soon they will bring me a morsal so small
one with no family or home
Orphan or coinless, not of them at all
Someone unloved and unknown.

‘Here’ they call, ‘Here is the one with a heart,’
Pushing the child through the gate.
‘Eat as you will and then, monster, depart!’
While the sun sets on their fate.

Leaping the walls as they tremble and grieve,
safe is the child at the door
‘You’re what I take, it’s the heart that I leave,
Yours is the blood on the floor.’

I am the stranger, I am the one
Born by the night on the glen
Four legs, two legs, grey death to come
Stalking the houses of men

It's been a long time

since I was so angry I just thought, 'Fuck it,' and said what I thought without consideration of how to place words with efficiency and tact.

I called a racist 'racist.' Oh the shock of it, after so long being so polite! Her old mate, the person who studied Wicca under her tutelage, objected. And I got angry and meaner. It has been a very very long time, since I got into the vibe of enjoying rage on a visceral level the way Dad taught us to. What he never taught us is that it is a pointless expulsion of energy 9 times out of 10 and the 10th time, it will probably keep you going until the battle's done, like some kind of Bear-sark chewing on their shield. Actually Dad would have been a fantastic berserker. It might even be a family trait; our surname comes from the Irish meaning 'Friend/Son (of the) Foreigner,' the foreigners in question being the Norsemen. So there it is, a fine reason for hereditary head-rabies. Helpful.

Which is all very well, but hardly appropriate on social media. My argument suffered on account of my anger, but then, I console myself that they were not listening to argument anyway. Deep in the UKip zone they were bambling on happily about how Aylan Kurdi's family were not 'real' refugees... why wasn't the little boy's dad fighting for his country? If he could go back to Kobane to bury his family it couldn't be that unsafe, could it? Canada had already rejected the refugee paperwork, maybe they weren't real refugees, the sister had changed her story several times, these people come to Britain for the cushy benefits...the usual poisonous crap. So I bit them hard. And I would do it again.

But I won't make a habit of losing my temper, because it's not me any more, or rather it isn't me nine times out of ten. The tenth time I can't speak for. Perhaps none of us can.