The Serenade of death

From the womb of the Crone
Before they were born
No burdens had they borne
Nor a single painful groan.

In a creche without satins and silk
On the devil's cradle, on the earthen bed
They wail for warmth a droplet of milk
The milk they'll have scarlet and red.

Insulted judged by the birth,
A taboo the childish mirth.
A saddle over the back tied with a girth,
On the doorsteps they labour since the birth.

Seeking refuge on a moving wheel,
Gained nothing only pain they feel.
Starving no choice beg or steal,
Till their necks have the cold kiss of steel.

Guilty for nothing but being born,
Pale by the light blood drained and gone.
Ale of frustration drinking with horns.
They fight to survive and save their bones.

O'er the bodies dead from the line's rear,
Through the path of mischief,so sheer
Reaching the lofty summit of desires without fear,
For a glimpse of salvation desperately they peer.

From the humanity holy by far,
Who changed them into savages now they are?
Playing with their fate,it ain't fair.
Who lead them into the path of despair?

Swearing on the holy writ,
will they ask pardons for the sins they inherit?
Will they pray for merit?
In the name of the father,son and the holy spirit?

Neither any apologies nor any prayers,
Will borrow the pardon for the Kinslayers.
Skies will wail the Path will be narrow,
Ravens of the hell will peck their bone marrow.

Being judged but not by the lord,
By the rules extreme the Nature's code.
Have no choice they go abroad,
Leaving behind their golden hoard.

Listening to the sepulchral tone,
Of the Serenade of death chilling to bone.
From the toil of a lifetime weary and worn.
No one to sigh, they lie beneath the tomb stone.