The tranquil movement of peace,
Soaring when I was asleep,
In my sleep I harvested wheats,
With my workers thriving on sweat and grief,
Apparently aware of their master’s flying whip.

An embodiment of abundant grace,
Crooked smiles scattered all over his face,
Wealth as little as the sands on the earth’s surface,
Flying on the ground, his steps no man can trace,
Is he god or just made in god’s image?

The gods are wise, so are we,
The gods pervert justice, so do we,
The gods are strong, so are we,
Ruthless the gods are, so are we
Roared the mooing voice which could be killed not, that of the king.

Do not breathe the air meant for the ancestors,
Do not covet the virgins meant for the ancestors,
Do not speak the tongues meant for the ancestors,
Thundered the wiggling mouthpiece of the ancestors,
As he conveyed the less intimidating message of the ancestors.

Oh Old man, Why were you blessed with sickness?
Why do you steal my peace so frequent?
Why do you love me with plenty hatred?
What is the message you brought so urgent?
The body of your wooden god I should cleanse?

Remorseful laughter romanced the air,
Its wailing tone the king refused to hear,
sinking deep in the ocean of thoughts he could not bear,
for death has kissed his heir,
and all his sheep’s first alpha have been saluted by death.

Sleeping bodies scattered like ridges in a farm,
The flowing river has become so silent and calm,
The mouthpiece of the gods found dangling on a tree,
With his tongue staring at all men who cared to see,
The king really had invited mayhem into the community.

He lay peacefully on his ivory mat,
Like a man no better than a dead rat,
His skin as fresh as the mind of a rift raft,
The community’s river gushing out from his swollen mouth,
Now all he wished for was to head south.