Industrious in their greed,
they have set about building the big Fear,
hammering out the old ideas with new zest,
new lies, shaping every word, every law,
so that it might disguise their chief intent.
Sanctioned by power and duly elected,
these hapless few have
appointed themselves to throw the switch,
light the match, turn off the lights,
to make what is already wrong,
seem more or less right.
They have a stomach for it, and the stamina -
they have rehearsed their parts so well,
there are no parts for them to play,
which will be their undoing, if not ours.
Schooled in the mathematics of fear -
they’d keep us all at bay,
divided by a glib logic into
winners & losers,
buyers & sellers,
the leavers & the left-behind.
Their art as old as Mother Night -
to make the dark seem light.
Never mind Creation Times -
that eternal becoming-present-not-yet.
In the vast hinterland of the oldest piece
of dry land on Earth, an old blind woman
in ageless walkabout, accompanied by a dog,
feels the souls of the Ancestors through her feet,
and speaks and sings the stories few can hear.
It is enough.
Stop and listen, stop and see.
Draw near. Here is the other side of power,
stronger than water. And she is blind, and
they, they think they are the ones that see.