Tell me if this is already tilled ground: (for any reason) Candlelit corridors In this most ancient of chapels There he stands The loathed blasphemer From the shadows He is watched And he knows He has transgressed Away from the cameras In this prison of fear He feels alone Shuffling down the hall But he knows What he has invoked And he is not alone Marbled eyes watch him He knows that bodies move And robes stir in the corners Murals come to life Painted heads turning to watch Statues in the dark loft Look down with judgement Pillars stand unforgiving Wicks burn still in anticipation The marble does not betray The footsteps of the inquisitors Sent to end the heresy The candles dim in assistance Black hooded robes Dark-leathered hands Hard boots falling softly On the polished stone The transgressor knows There are those who would kill To protect the peace Those who know these places His sins are most vile His life in in danger His path streches tenfold The shadows pull inwards Behold the man Stifling his conscience Against the bend Of what he knows to be certain He has reached the end of the hall This place has deceived him Turning his back to the wall Not having faith in the stone behind him The room has lost all its length He observes the unlit candles That just twenty paces before Had glowed orange in indignation Ten boots step from the shadows Hooded men in perfect unison Mortals they may be But hidden from all critical eyes To have them stand before him Sent a chill through the man For he knew only the greatest insult Would call these brothers to the hunt He sensed the sadness Of these angered souls This was a personal injury And he felt their veiled eyes He had not been told any tales But he know who these men were Living in secret places In their cherished temples They were above worldly contempt They kept the silence That was their purpose And they embraced it This was something No ordinary man could know For to know their presence Would make reserved even the garrulous He never believed In superstition or stories But at the end of a life End blurs with end A metallic rasp Ten long swords Perfectly trained Their form was flawless A circle of shadowed faces He fell to his knees Swords pointed inwards Steady and patient He felt the brotherhood Between these men And he thought of his blasphemies How horrid and treacherous Master craftsmenship Were these swords Words wrought in steel These were crafted with passion They struck with precision A clean death No more was needed To secure his passing Back to their secret ways All retreated into dark Stone doors slid away Far off in the shadows Dark blood spreads Over the marbled floor But the marbled faces Still stare
"Peace be upon you"-Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
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