The dictator today has time
to watch the birdies fly away
enjoy the view of his hills
spot the dots of people down below
merge into a scene he has no control.
He cannot synchronize those birds as
he would wish or even melt the snow.
He cannot know the thoughts of those down below.
Our dictator knows even his power
cannot make beauty more fair.
*******
He seems so ill to them
so fallen
so rich with dirt
and pills and penny pieces
and his own private
purple haze
to those who deign
to gaze at him, all, so loaded with
their own stones,
never, in this sun of eyes, ever
going to get home.
To them I write,
in their dark and light
lost in the mixing colours,
to her he loves, this love
the Junkie could not kill.
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