Malice was painted on his face,

As he preached about unworthy race

Those of noble blood, and royal bearing

Listened to him, enchanted, forgetting,

Their ancestors’ footsteps in the mud,

Their thirst for life, for blood,

Their joy as they gave them life

Their tears, as they trod over strife,

They forgot, they had the same eyes.

They spoke the same, they moved the same,

Yet, they were different – in all but a name.

Irena Blazinšek