|Occupy Wall Street|
I woke up to a dream of hope:
the silent hordes who’d been asleep,
possessed for one ecstatic moment
of love before that love is spent.
For now, instead of begging bowls,
they raise their cups and think of schools,
clean water, liberty and rice,
in place of war and pestilence.
Who is the man who’d be a god,
and slake our thirst for more than blood?
But we have gorged ourselves on gods
and soaked our claws in sunny words,
and now we’re sick, too sick to swallow
the honeycomb promises of kings who borrow
magic from the myriad-headed hydra
(serpent slayer of the ancient Maya).
While Fear and Faith stand by the throne,
the world still wears a golden chain –
now will some god-king give the command
to throw all idols to the ground?
No. Hail the one, who would be chief –
he is you, and me, and a turning leaf.