you would trade the moss of our hometowns for a kingdom of grain you tried to spit it out on your way south but it still sticks to the roof of your mouth you’ve had them drag you off by the hair you had them wait for you over there behind the towers, behind the flowers on anger’s white throne
but i don’t care for your milk and honey nor do i wish to be wrapped up in the silence of money me who cared for flour and oil who cared for blood-drenched soil and slept the sleep of apples and gold as in the stories of old and i don’t care for your grass-given grief for your pain’s left me locked in disbelief among the towers, among the flowers on anger’s white throne
and what strange sheep we are with the wool pulled over our eyes and what strange fruit we bare when we’re stuffed with hatred and lies despite my silence and my attempts at reserve you pushed me to smother you pushed me to serve they ought to be warned against your poetry and charm they ought to be warned against you now finish this harvest and sprinkle my boots with your wine now that our fears are whistling in flocks in the dust and sobs of time
around the towers, around the flowers on anger’s white throne among the towers, in the orchards of rome come closer, come closer still