Romantic and Pragmatist

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The darkness that descends to crush my mind
when dwelling on the end of white mankind
is worse than any shadow entertained
when my own death is foremost in my brain.
What care have I for my decaying corpse?
The same as water for the wood it warps.
Inevitable death I can accept,
but races are immortal if well-kept. —
These genes that make white women so refined
and blow such inspiration through the grind
of white men solving problems, needs and musts,
are, death by death, reduced to ash and dust.
How will the world cope with our women’s loss?
How will it fare, no longer our men’s cross?