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 [bad word] 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 [bad word] closer [bad word] closer still