THE DEW DROPS OF MONEY

A mighty leaf...
Female lambs grazing around...
Nibbling only when the time is right...
To make paper...
To make books...
To sell knowledge...
To sell sunlight and dirt...
Digested elements made firm by the coin...
Where the driver of the bus...
He picks up daily...
For the higher authority...
And without the immortal presence...
No eyes could ever hug those divine arches...
Of all holy buildings...
Ones containing blood and organs...
And bells in the shape of alarm clocks...
A slave to the grass...
The mother prepares one meal...
Feeding billions...
So they may snatch, beg, and borrow...
So they receive plates with golden rims...
And black coffee from ancient lands...
Hands washed to be filthied again...
His hair styled to leave an impression...
To make an attachment..
And preparing to feel pain...
Like distilled and fermented fruit remains...
Tearing through livers...
Tearing through wombs to give birth...
Baking is but a mere technique...
A fashion both bought and sold...
Remembering the day of banana leaves catching water...
But now towns are washed and owls are blind...


doM