What we have we carry in our hands he said
we cry all the way back to the Merchants shed
as he leaves port smile reflected in that Aegean sun
You look down at it, the few coins of less value
It's not you you want to bellow
you carry it as if nude
All you have you carry with you
neighbors compare so you do too
feasts and rituals bread and water
mud bricks and inner city quarters
the soiled children look up to survive
soot in their eyes coin scramble dive
learning to be just like you
turbin and gown lifted just enough
to miss the filth trampelled hay and brush
avoid the begger narrative rough
As you pull into the Merchants shop
shame and frustration linger like failed crops
the face stretches to hide and lock it
anger in the eyes few shekels in the pocket
come out made whole beard a nursing
as if a bit of copper turned you into a person
suddenly feeling the sour taste of class
the lie of higher title tickling the crotch
step over the dead homeless shuffler
drunk and smiling an hour before
now it has been transferred
in the shape of a subtle smirk
The universe prodding the conman
each of us with our bag of coins
comparing and complaining
unknowing ourselves
value is tunic and ring
the peasant climbs up through the muck
blinded by the savagery in throughout
blinded by the full phoenician dawn
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário