The fire and the hurricane—

They rage from side to side;

But the pang in the belly is a keener blaze,

And despair in a dry eye

More drowning than a tide.

 

Trillion dollar economies

Are the sharpest in their greed;

The poor still recognize

Each other’s human need.

 

Nature sends her scourges

To level the pyramid;

The rich suffer some bruises,

But the poor turn up dead.

 

All is written, says the priest,

Those that have shall get;

The last will be first in heaven,

And next to god shall sit.

 

Why covet the fallen earth,

Meant only for tycoons

Who ruin their own salvation

By behaving like goons.

 

But a black voice rises from behind,

“Why are we the fodder

To the sinful tribe who lord the earth?

Can this be a divine order?”

 

The priest reverts to Latin,

To Hebrew, Sanskriit, Arabic;

Miasma drowns the question,

In high-falutin writ.

 

The fire and water serve a hint

That the palace walls ignore.

Perhaps some final pestilence

Will soon come ashore.

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