Wednesday, 20 February 2013

Robbers: a poem (inspired by a recent dream)

Presenting themselves in clean skins,
The robbers travel from afar to take, treasure and lives,
Good and honest men and women – from a looking glass view –
Blinded by lenses forged in the cold darkness of polar thought.
The robbers preach an ancient thousands-years-old tapestry,
Now rewoven in intricate patterns of modern trickstering, laws,
Deciphered only by those who can see the newest incarnation preachers,
For who they really are: Conjurers of empty chalice and poisonous drink.

Clothed in deceit, the court jester, the robber leader, performs his best for the royal patrons,
Apparently unaware he in fact stands in the nude.
Ever convinced and confident of his sly dance – a delusions of grandeur high step –
Driven on by the whips of those who own him, a conductor in residence, the court jester parlays.
Bought and paid for from the windy city streets of his own in-consequence,
He sends out the good men and women, robbers, who’ve signed on,
To unwittingly rob those on the other side of the world (and at home, too),
Those who now live and die below a foreign, dirty bald eagle, its shadow threateningly undulating across a burnt earth.

Some of the robed men from their scorched homes promise to avenge the deaths – of their wives and of their mothers, of their fathers and of their sons and of their daughters – someone will pay, the dept.
But probably not the robbers themselves – no, probably the robbers will not, personally, pay.
(Nor will the court jester, their leader, pay.)
For they cannot be reached, safely fenced, in fact and in dogma.
Instead the robbers mount their remote thrones,
And watch the gamed world below unfold in tacit images of nothing that matters, to them.
For payment the robbers will be wined and dined in colorful ribbons of glory, pinned on chests, puffed,
Hearts and minds intoxicated by lies and indifference.
They are sad-false heroes who kill for what the puppet masters want, from the earth and from the people,
And to defend the mirage in which they themselves live: the illusion of freedom and democracy.
Thus the robbers crosshair those who get in the way and fight back;
They aim to extinct those who are likewise lost in the righteous wood,
¬– but who nonetheless have the right to fight, back, for the right of their voice, for the life of their choice –
While also killing those who just seem, a little suspicious,
Or those not even that, at all, “by accident.”

In the end the robber leaders will die, eventually,
Perhaps morally ill-equipped to face their torrid roles,
For that would require them accepting their lives were full of...
They will die old and comfortable in their white houses, on the hill, paid for by the riches of the billions,
Their messes left for their and your and my children,
To clean up.

Andrew R. Steele