They speak of courage, guns hidden in pockets, as though they know its source. We listen to the Earth differently; our history untold, obliterated by records long since burned, alive only in their rendition and in the symbols of ruins scattered across this timeless globe. Our own voices were silenced in a void. The void has grown, threatening all. We who were born there have returned. They lift their plastic and weild their modern swords, slaughtering things. Through the chute we follow, to the knocker, to be gutted and trimmed. Our warm blood spilled on concrete floors, washed away each night, no trace of our existence to be found. They build paper prisons out of our memorials and euthanize our past on electronic walls adorned with mantras that fuel the slaughter, day after day after day. We are here though, with seeds found in pastures where we met them. Where we saw. Where we remembered. They speak of courage, as they destroy. Yet courage is to know the source of the silence and the void. Courage is to understand; there is only us.