The fourth year is come
round again,
The demigods' scroll is
unfurled,
Those set apart called forth
from camps.
Each says the sacred
chants of old,
Walks the land in circles
of initiation,
And with each power-imbued
syllable of dissimulation,
Seeks of the
knife-wielding priests conciliation.
But one must be chosen,
man-will be made manifest.
A-quiver with
anticipation,
The priests approach the
men before them.
Each his solemn choice he
shows
With a single stab of his
jagged blade,
And his next duty is like
unto it:
Plunging the self-same
dagger into priest-flesh,
As much as he can round
him reach.
There! The ritual is done!
Once again the land is
blessed!
Within the holy square,
the chosen man’s slaughtered corpse
Is placed upon a stately
throne,
And the priests make merry
in the freshly flowing gore.
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