I've Come Home

Sing me songs of ancient Israel, and with the black tongue of Babylon I'll touch you,
Hung with the dried flesh of the gods of frail, self-assured Caesars, I've come.
You are a garden amidst a sea of sand and slow-bubbling grease.
I have come.
I've hung my furs and skins upon the vines,
and now the ripening trees waft the small of eager fruit to mingle with the blood dried under my nose.
Like Pan I've galloped in with flute in hand, lusting after the sugars of grapes and pomegranate,
from Tibet I've walks, and the sands of Al-Jazhira have enveloped me,
the days without or water or time gave sweated my sanity from me,
and I can never return to the rocks from which I sprung, even they tell me I am barbarian,
I am hated by the godless, and feared by gods.
I've come.
I've come.
A hatchet in hand, I've come,
I stripped the olives from the trees, but my hunger is not so easily exhausted.
The wood shutters as you feel the grove's violation,
a bronze hatchet hews the trunk's flesh, and the leaves shiver on the end of the tender delicate twigs.
The tree is halved, and sap congeals with the fertile earth.
I press my lips to taste it, to suck the sticky pools into my stomach.
I'll break and burn until I breathe my last, and sleep forever in your ashes.
Home.
I have come.
I have come home.