In a story long forgotten,
Was a kingdom, hoared and rotten.
There, on the majesty's land, was a drift,
That steeped into a hill and then a rift.

Fetched and stolen in the dread of night,
Thousands taken - transported to their plight,
In the crevasse of a sinking fissure,
They were sold, for profit or for leisure.

Seven chambers of stagnant, rotting flesh,
Putrid carcasses hang from hook and mesh.
Disemboweled bodies in dregs of sorrow,
Wailing, weeping, withheld in harrow.

In these burrows did demons play,
Baking the bones of the dead they frayed;
Chastised mercy in a chamber cheerless:
Daunted, damned - divest awareness.

The eminence sought for a reprieve,
Of the shame that had willed to supersede;
He rallied a force seven thousand strong,
And scourged the land, drawing support along.

They marched up the hill in vigor and faith,
And fell through the crevasse, into the wraith.
Seven stood guard outside the aperture,
Whilst the rest bore passage in a tenure.

Therein was absent of lantern and light,
And bleakness alone contributed blight.
Their instincts were dull and they were hounded,
By the trace thought of being surrounded.

They should listen, not gesture to proceed;
But through their rage thought did not intercede.
The conscripts besieged the dally trifles,
And slaughtered in tenacity unequaled, unrivaled.

They were hung, hooked in quarters adjacent,
And disemboweled, nevertheless, indecent.
Their rawboned remains poise jut and molder,
Indicting the kingdom with drought smolder.