Two nations astride,

differences collide.

It are some coastal strokes they yearn for,

beachheads of evil,

a pathway to the underbelly of a nation.

Popes battle,

for kings foolishly drive themselves

a wig between the faithful.

Obeying some dark recesses of their soul,

we pay and toil,

become  empowered.

Never enough,

for it’s not the slavish peasant alone,

who is disrespected.

The battle is lost,

yet they feast,

at what cost?

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: