Hidden Truth
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 The tzar, I toil for the tzar,
 His flying carpet, his diamond star.
 I push my plow, and sow my field,
 To give the tzar, whatever the yield.

 His generals make the poor men fight,
 And we do, to serve his eternal night,
 My wife and my son, starve while I'm away,
 But I must fight, and win the day.

 The tzar's mountain is our defensive stand,
 The fortified castle, symbol of our land,
 We settle in and dig our trenches,
 Slamming hammers and twisting wrenches,
 And wait in shock for our faceless foe,
 Our enemies' faces, we do not know.

 For the enemy we saw was but one aged man,
 With no sword, no gun, but a book at hand,
 And he drew no weapon that we could see,
 But opened the book, and read to me.

 I listened to what he yelled out loud,
 His face was solemn, his motions proud,
 His words filled the stagnant air,
 And we listened, to his rhetoric flare.

 He said that the tzar was simply a man,
 He had no magic, no man can.
 We were the oppressed, the powerless few,
 Only through respect could we fight on through.

 Then it occured to us, in the blink of an eye,
 "Why should the tzar, have more power than I?"

 Our enemies' words had stopped us flat,
 Not with guns, but the knowledge that,
 While we stood out, in the Siberian nights,
 Our real enemy was atop Vladimirian Heights.

 Onslaught [CHAOS] 7.23.93