Forgotten Sons (Part II)

Confined to this home,
I can only choose when these windows shall be opened.
But it is just a breath that I can take; quick, limited - yet ached for.
It does not resemble fresh dewy air from the cool mountain peaks.
More so a rotting and spoiled kind,
Sour from the brook that runs past the center mill.

This stench hadn't travelled this far until the last fortnight.
I suppose those men gave up on their efforts to clear the area.
They should know the deceased decay faster when left to the elements.

But a boy hadn't been found yet,
Leaving us with the everlasting blasted cold and bitter rage.
I for one can control these rash emotions,
But the men of the whispers have gone but lost it all.
We are at our last options of survival - and they are in charge.

This must seem like a putrid perfume to their senses,
Some redolence they cannot get enough of.
It is the only thing that is keeping them sane -
Hunting the children from the villages along the Northern Tributary,
Just to spill their blood into our lanterns as fuel, onto our rags for the torches,
And too, into the water mills churning out pools of crimson water!
I am positive that these acts of manslaughter are not only for our benefit.
But it is no place for a man to stand against their acts alone.
When each new day without a boy cuts straight through their minds and along their throats,
I doubt they would let hesitancy exclude them from mine.

... It's almost as if their rot warms the air - but it's not enough.
We cannot settle for less or for what we have.
The replacement must be located...

04/02/14
Caroline Schmiermann