The Nice and True Recountings of the Dread Poet Roberto

[EisenSeele]

They say the rust colored earth of Crete are the dried tears of some long abandoned god who wept blood at our forgetfullness. The barren soil of our homeland found us poor and hungry, and thus she gave up her bones so that we might buy what scraps we could to keep ourselves fed. To toil, dig, and sell what we could to buy what we need, and to take the rest. It was all we could do.

After hundreds of years, we have kept ourselves fed.

An empire, we call ourselves - our whims stretch across three fifths of the known world, with ships and fire and blood in our wake.

We no longer toil for what we need, we need but demand and take what we want. And for what?

We are still a starving people - not necessarily for grain or water or other nourishment for the body, but for nourishment for the soul.

It was said, during the starving times, that the elders would flood the air with music and stories to fill the empty stomachs of the children. Captivating tales and entrancing sounds to calm the pangs of hunger as we put our young to sleep. Now with our bellies full and our ambitions burning, it is our souls that starve and our hearts that hunger for the nourishment that once filled the air of our hungry streets.

What good is money, power, and glory? They are but means to an end for us to grasp who we are - the answers to how but not to who or why.
Like my brothers of old, I will set out with a ship and fires of my own to take and forge what we now truely need - culture.

The songs of the past are largely lost to us now but I'll know them when I hear it.
I am the DREAD POET ROBERTO, AND I WILL PAINT OUR STORIES ANEW WITH MY GUNS AS MY BRUSH AND THE SKIES AS MY CANVAS.

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