Son of Cain
The blood of my martyred brothers
is now served up to me
In goblets of silver and gold—
bedewed with sweat and tears.
Drink—say slaves and masters—
drink your fill, and laugh or cry
As others do who are as good
and just as you.
Drink the cup poured out for you:
take your portion—or perish
In your lonely desert
of pity and self-righteousness.
I stare in doubt and horror,
they do not know;
My heart is torn with terror,
with rage and dismal fears.