When Our Stories Shall Be Told

When our stories shall be told and our chronicles opened:sad empty tales. Who will not spit and denounce such shameful tales?, what eye shall prode on it without reeling a curse. An era that polished their gourds with the blood of their dead and in it intered their natal milk. What eye shall view such shame? What tongue shall tell such tales? Such stories...such history,let it forge a pole star,to draw our feet lest we stumble again,or our children consider an ominious alternative as we did. Promising though it sounds;beguilling in fact that history teaches us nothing,than the nostalgic euphoria of once upon a time. It grinds frenzied chronicles into an inert dust of mere reminiscence and few leave the detritus unaltered. Even the remains,though authentic or hoax,complete or distorted kicks us in the face and we ferry them like gatekeepers across the river of greed as a frivolous otiose hanging painfully on our neck. So when our stories shall be told,either by groits or paid minstrels;of our self inflicted doom. What ear shall hear such tales:sad tragic stories and not laugh mournfully.