Our heritage has always
been divinely non-existent;
a propagandized fabrication
born of a dustbin sentimentality.
For centuries we have identified with those
shrewd forefathers, nimble in supplying to their subjects
something in which to revel:
a resurrected heritage, that monarch of lustful self-deception –
an embellished romance
in the name of the holy one,
so hopelessly preoccupied by the advent of free society
that it coerced a standard – so classic and relative –
of events past, coupled with self-righteous heroism,
and the bravado thereof.
In our glorious days we
have indeed recalled that idealism,
goaded by its legacy into forfeiting
our confidence to its
embodiment, and believing in its reward.
By the construction of generations,
we have rendered both a
gilded final manifestation of our ancestors,
as well as a vindication for our exploits:
the paradox of our heritage, divinely non-existent.