It is in your blood, you say.

Victim one day, victim you always stay.

It's a shame that through smoke and horrors, even bright stars

Look exactly the same as crooked marks.

Now, what would your ancestors say if they saw you've turned persecutors? If you even have their blood in your veins?

Because it is in my blood.

My ancestors were the caged, the hunted,

And the fear remains in my bones, the screams in my soul

From behind barbwires, sealed doors, walls of mold

I've never stepped past, and yet, I would never even wish for anyone to be trapped like animals in chains.

History always repeats,

And too often humanity forfeits,

Lost with every child's laugh, innocence... once evergreen.

And if all isn't black or white, in between,

Now, it is in their blood, the sharp line you are drawing through the crosshairs, cold and merciless, in blurry red stains.