I'm at war with the dead men of the past, those wretched individuals who intercepted the cultural flow of my ancestral legacy, rushing upon us with a blazing ruthlessness, brutally slaying showing no mercy where ever they stood. Declaring my people as strange and barbaric, with much calculation they made my language illegal attempting to stamp out my rebirth, making my face unknown to myself, turning me into a predicted result of their strategic plans.
Successful to a degree they were, as there is a difference between being raised by your language and having to relearn it. I was raised speaking my father's killer's tongue, my enemy eternally breaking into me, swaying my essence into their direction, their masterpiece, a piece that they master themselves over. They are long dead in the external realm, making this war personal to myself. A war within that must be fought with knowing that which i once was.
There is no way forward until i return back to restart where i left off, to bring forward swords of information where i place myself upon to carry myself back to myself. An acceptance of a gift that nature has bestowed upon me, approached with an eager acceptance. Since i was birthed in my enemy's language, i cannot change that. A wound that will never heal, so i have chosen to treat it as a portal into the depths of the past, a remembrance of these grinning vultures, especially now that i see them. Humbly i wait to merry meet myself and greet myself with bright blessings.
Half of the battle has been won.