Wolves clothed In Sheep.

As the rain dances with the gladdening meadows of the lands in the East,

the billowing breeze spreads the sweet fragrance of new life and love. 

Walking on these lands,

I've been called many names. 

Coming from these lands

I've been a slave,

a King,

a Queen,

a child. 

I've been a hermeticist,

a hermit,

a Kushite,

a pagan,

a gentile, 

and a lost soul. 

I've wrestled and tussled with the wicked schemes and plots of adverse mischief makers on these beautiful lands. 

Son of the Sun covered in the mud of ignorance.

Son of Alkebulan caught up in the web of lies spread from across Tripoli down to the streets of Soweto. 

There was a time we walked the lands of Alkebulan with bodies covered with fine silk and minds illumined by the wisdom of the unseen. 

There was a time,

until it was there no more. 

Now, 

Her lands are covered with agonies and despair

 and her history has been made a mystery.

Her lands are covered with the stench of death and suffering

brought about by those who come dressed in sheep outwardly,

but are nothing more than ferocious wolves inside.

Woe to those Oppressors sitting on their thrones

trying to detect the price of our souls.

Woe to those Oppressors with deep pockets and short hands

They spare no pains to cause us loss.