The Revolution Feeds

Beneath the blood-red, broken moon,
A whisper stirred — too late, too soon —
A promise made in fervent breath,
Now coiled around the throat of death.

The banners burned, their colors bled,
While ghosts of glory crowned the dead;
Each vow once sworn in righteous flame
Now murmurs low a traitor’s name.

The children of the cause, betrayed,
By hands their holy zeal had made —
They turn, they bite, they tear, they moan:
The revolution eats its own.

Through marble halls where tyrants fell,
Now stalks a darker, colder hell;
The martyr’s grin, the hangman’s jest,
Both wear the same immortal crest.

O cruel mirror, cracked and wide,
That shows the beast on every side!
No victor stands — no sinner known —
For all are fed, and all are thrown.

And still beneath that hollow moon,
It feasts, and feeds, and fades too soon;
While echoes hum, in ghastly tone:
The revolution eats its own.