The blatant burn of the breaking bone
The built-up walls of a dreamless home
A numbing thought of the mind alone.
The matchstick burns the candlelight dry
And the darkness succumbs to majesty on high
For he rules the throne far from the cry
On the streets. "Those peasants," he sighs.
Another crack of that whip and now the blood.
"Work!" says he who need not scrub the mud
Nor bend the back nor break his bone in a 'THUD!'
Ah, no. He hast not seen the flood
That ripped past their very lives, leaving shreds
Of hopeless rhythm, of each step with no creds
For efforts left unheard of in marketed threads.
But there he sits upon his throne,
Trying not to scratch or groan,
Nor gaze too long at the lovely maid and moan
Of duty, responsibility- the eternal drone.
A servitude with no scope of defiance.
A responsibility to the peasants' reliance.
Unquenched flames of conquest, the bloody alliance.
Heartless spoils, inhumane manhood and chained lions.
He watches the birds hum. The elephants thump.
The wives sing and the harlequin dance.
He smiles at the loving slave.
Neither is the other.
But both are one.
Both waiting for the day
That chains come undone.
-27/10/16
