We Look Elsewhere for Help

You promised to make honey out of bile when you stood on that hill. That our tongues will be miles away from life’s bitterness. We believed you because the venerable one cannot lie. So we mortgaged our thumbs to make you our only king. The orb, the scepter, the crown, they soon daze you. Memory of your subjects becomes so fleeting. That with your borrowed wings you left us behind to live among the clouds, In a comfortable nest of ivory, gold, and fine wood. Creature comfort intoxicates our king. Unrestrained gaiety becomes his pastime. Conspicuous consumption is his forte. He makes merry in his drunken opulence and emits shouts of satiety. On our crops, his debris of merriment falls. And hunger fills the stomachs of his subjects. He who thinks of himself a bird with borrowed wings Forgets the woes, fears, and anxieties of his people below. And our dirges and lamentations do not reach him, For he saunters in earmuffs to ward off our cries. And we have become unrecognizable in his eyes. So in our helpless state, we look elsewhere for help.