The sun rises again, casting gold over the land We’ve taken, piece by piece, for men like me— Men who know God’s will, who build His vision. I march them west, away from their filth and chaos, They stumble like cattle, stubborn and lost, Their ways are old, crude, and broken. They don’t see the gift I bring them, The chance to leave their misery behind. A new land awaits them— Isn’t that mercy enough? We let them live, after all. We could’ve left them to rot where they stood, But no, we move them forward, Give them a new horizon to ruin. They clutch their relics, their beads and feathers, Prayers to their pagan spirits, their empty gods. I’ve heard they worship the trees and the rivers— They love the land more than they love salvation. It’s no wonder we take it from them. They waste it, scatter it with huts and dirt. God intended this earth for men of vision, For farms and cities, for roads that lead to Him. I see no humanity in their eyes, only defiance, The stubborn pride of a people too ignorant to yield. They think this is cruelty, but I know better. This is order. This is civilization. We bring them law, the word of God, And they spit on it like beasts. I tell myself, perhaps one day they’ll understand, But I doubt it. Some creatures can’t be taught. The women wail for their children, Their husbands stare like wolves—hungry, angry. I feel no guilt, only the firm hand of justice. They’ve had their time, their chance to make something of this land. And what have they done? Nothing but roam and fight and waste. We are better than that, Better than them. It is our right to take what they squander. They call it a “trail of tears,” But isn’t all change painful? Isn’t growth born of suffering? They will learn, or they won’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter. We march them west, And what waits for them there is more than they deserve. I tell myself this, and I believe it. God made them lesser, and He made us great. Their dead litter the path, And still I march. I step over them with the conviction of a man who knows his purpose. If they are too weak to follow, too weak to endure, Then they prove what I already know: They don’t belong here. This is no land for the weak, No land for the lost. I see their tears, but they mean nothing. I see their pain, but it does not move me. I’m doing them a favor, Taking them to a place where they might finally find their worth. If not in this life, then in the next. But even that seems unlikely. For some souls, perhaps, Were never meant to be saved.