Blood and Blossom

I am he who built the Persepolis,
Babylon, the wall of china,
the intercontinental railway,
the water plans,
upon the blood of working man, slaves.
I am the master of inferno,
paradise
on the pedestal of blood and hell.

I am he who tortures you to pave the roads,
and paved your bones to the stretches of bridges.
I am he who bruises you to the blossom,
distends to your picks
inflect cucuriating pains
to arouse you to the panicles of your toils and triumphs.

I am he who digs the wholes and graves, graveyards,
the mass graveyards of unwritten heroes,
to rise the mounds of high-rises,
he who storms the calm, and tear the evenness
to create waves and currents
to perpetuate.

I am he who causes the music
from agony and pause,
he who tormented Beethoven, to symphonies,
Van Gogh to express sunshine
even on the petals of livid nights,
he who plants besotted sunflower
in the tippled vases.

I am he who put Lorca in front of wall,
he who turns torment to profit,
he who stretch a zero to continuity,
needs to commodity,

he who creates the walls and borders
and wars to protect them.

I am the inversed God
he who makes the good happen from bad,
blossom from blood
bravery from war,
love from resentment,
passion from burn.