Distant drums..beating, resonating loudly-
Firelight, flickering shadows..deep in the live oak tangles-
Laughter, chanting, voices raised in hysteria..muffled screams-
Pass the gourd of beer around. The slaves will brew more.
Strangers come to our land..Overstayed their welcome-
Thunder-death, to any who displeased them. The cudgel and the lash.
We are masters of this land, not sod to be trod upon?
Even the mighty must sleep. Taken in the night, without struggle-
Ornaments...tokens..Hanging from the arms of the mighty green oaks.
Bulging eyes and writhing bodies. Slow cooked over driftwood fires-
Sharp stone knives..Thin slivers of wriggling, bloody meat.
Through the haze of smoke. Eye contact..Shock!
"Your grave, in my stomach."
"Mitote" translates roughly into, "wild party."
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