Art Stories: Portrait of Imperialism

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Night’s Silence, Morning’s Warning

The night before the battle, the sky is hushed. Morning’s sun flares of impending fire. Thus, the land throbs, anticipating spilled blood. Hearts ablaze, people hum, lift spears, and steel themselves for war. However, the sun screams heat the next morning as if to say, “there will be fire and death today”. The very land aches with blood to be spilled. The people’s hearts are ablaze with the beat of beast skin drums. They hum, they lift spears, they sharpen their claws, and they steel themselves for war.

Invaders from the Blue Seas

From blue seas on wooden hulks, invaders carry swords, steel, and fiery drink. Chains await in hulls, however, they cannot bind the spirit. Camps rise, sinew cages on sands, stripping people in a lust for control. They came from the blue seas nestled below the lighter sky on wooden hulks whose stomachs were bursting at the seams with swords, steel, gunpowder, fiery drink, and metal. These were the price of people, the price of living laborers. In those hulls waited chains to bind the flesh and heart of the people of this land. They think they have control, however, they cannot bind the spirit. That can never be taken.

The war chief roars and his hundred-fold spears slam into the great Mother Earth below. Thus, they shout back with rage and purpose. Today the people will fight. The southern people, brothers and sisters of this side of the earth, have been seduced by the outsider’s ambition. They proffer gold, they receive indulgence. Therefore, they stray from the Mother’s path for the same aim as the strangers who brought war: control.

The spears move swiftly, their feet slapping at the sand. They wield not just the sharpened points of slate, but the will of their ancestors along with them. Now, they charge across the battlefield. Across the way roar the southern people, charging with no will besides greed. Violence is their creed. Control is their God. There is no quench for the bloodlust that compares only to their lust for power.

Clash of Creed and God

Southern people roar, charging with greed as their creed. Control is their God. The slapping, splintering sound paints Mother Earth in blood, instantaneous like lightning. Grief echoes like thunder, seeping into the earth. Thus, making mother earth sad and cry tears of blood.

Unmatched Fighting Spirit

The northern tribe’s fighting spirit is unmatched. Their blood boils with victory’s spirit. None shall match their passion, their righteousness. The false God preaching greed won’t trample on their love for Mother Earth. With the slapping, splintering sound of wood and bone slicing through skin, the tribes paint Mother Earth in the blood of her children. It seeps into the earth, to never be forgotten. The love of one another buried underneath burial mounds to follow. The violence is instantaneous like a flash of lightning. The grief will echo long and evermore like thunder. The false God who preaches greed from beyond the sea will not trample on the love of Mother Earth the northern people hold unto. Today is their greatest showing, their most resounding war cry.

History Penned in Blood

In an hour, fighting ceases, a sea of viscera drowning Mother Earth. The southern tribe used explosives and steel from strangers. Northern survivors slung into cages, sailing into an unknown hell—all for gold. History is written in the blood of the fallen by the victors. Thus, the truth is only learned through art relics. In but an hour, the fighting ceases, a new sea of viscera drowning the great Mother beyond recognition. The southern tribe used explosive powder and gleaming steel sold by the strangers.