‘Placate the Lords of Darkness’ (Poem)

Summary

The jungle of darkness is walled tall

And the irons barred fast;

Helpless, we stare

As the warders of darkness,

The lords of darkness

Wall in their prisoners and stride away

Clasping fast the keys

Waiting to be placated.

We are the prisoners,

We are the besieged;

We are held back in the jungle of darkness,

And fettered by the cords of darkness.

And so, helpless, we stare

As the warders of darkness,

The lords of darkness

Now belching with the debauchery of shame

And self-congratulatory shamelessness

Wait, confident, to share their booties

For soon they shall be placated.

Truces are reached

Promises are made, and

Soon the billions will be shared –

The booties of shame.

And we stare, held down and helpless

But the warders of darkness,

The lords of darkness

Are in the chambers of debauchery

Clinking their glasses, certain that soon

They shall be placated.

Are they comrades

Who fasten the bars of darkness?

Co-conspirators in the chambers of debauchery

Over the tables of robberies of darkness

Are they?

The warders of darkness, the toads of darkness;

They are here

They are there

They are among us

But they are with them:

The lords of darkness

The toads of darkness

Who, satisfied, are glad of heart

And are clinking their glasses

For the booties ready to be garnered home,

As soon they shall be placated.

Hurray!

Their harvest is here;

It has always been here.

But they gather into famished barns;

Who is it that takes a basket to the river

And comes home with water?

They have taken a basket to the river,

Their barns will be hollow,

Hollow as their souls are hollow.

So will they still wallow in hollowness,

The lords of darkness with their warders of darkness,

Even after they have been placated.

Placate the lords of darkness

With their warders of darkness,

The toads of darkness,

That they may decree that there may be light.

May they?

The pampered by the booties of shame;

May they?

Who are belly-swollen with our blood of travail

May they?

Who feed that we, carbon-choked, may die.

May they?