Seed of a disease, the fever of my mind walked in disguise as the banal,
A thought not like poetry, a thought like the yielding rain fattened ground.
The ignored soil silently sighed; everyone came to see only the roses’ merry carnival,
Imprints of feet remained but no odes, no paeans in volumes leather bound.
Plain, this ordinary thought, never to smirk in beauty’s smugness, plain, this hobnailed donkey,
Unsung and despised, the stoic beast trudged in tired servitude.
Not Stubbs nor Husain captured the brute, for Caesar rode only horses,
Meekly it walked in the shadows of mountains, never to claim its beatitude.
Black this thought, perched beside a murder of red carrion crows,
Its whispers just as ominous as their beady eyes, fanned by wings of fury,
Obscured by the peacock’s parade the neglected raven gathers its forces in burgeoning rows,
Unrest slices through the nation’s stomach in a corridor of blood, change must here arrive in a hurry.