I sing the rich, I sing the easy,
the large, the fat, the wise,
the slow, the sick, the crazy,
the men with slinking eyes,
the dark, the heavy-hearted,
the poor in mind and breath,
the sad, the half-bred, ugly,
the mean, the near-to-death.
I sing all creatures lowly,
the slug, the sloth, the slater,
the hair-engaging spiders,
the fly, that spider-hater;
the weevil, moth and cockroach,
the stick-insect and bee,
the ant, the newt, the tadpole,
the height-disdaining flea.
I've seen a moth near-drowning
slide across a hot bath, flicker
up and off the surface, onto walls
and ceiling quicker
than my eyes can follow,
seen it smash into the light-bulb
flash into a mirror, speed from
wall to wall in frenzy, like a
dervish all a-shimmer, settle down
into a corner, flutter briefly,
catch its breath and in a moment
dive its suicidal path towards the
bath and start all over.
I've seen the rich at nuptials,
seen the bride bedecked in splendour,
seen the groom with largesse spending
seen the guests step tightly in their
tuxes and gowns and jewels and frowns -
just hidden from the cameras -
seen the petty and the pretty and the dainty and the
fat cats holding forth in glory that's
departing and will leave them lying
fainting in their soon-to-catch-them dust.
I sing them all, I must, for
songs unsung will sing for none
who lust and waste and care for
number one but soon will see them-
selves undone. I sing the poor who
bleed and grieve a life ill-spent with
no thing left for merriment where
all things rust and sweep away and
cries unheard distrust the day and
weakened hands that call for alms are
slapped away while pleasant balms are
smeared upon the hands that need no
further molument.
All lowliness, despised, discerned, will
undermine the deepest yearning of the
fat cat heart that cannot part with
things. For yearn they must who writhe for
things that turn to dust, that moth destroys, where
he who dies with most toys wins, while
studiously ignoring sins. You littlest
beasts, you crawling things, you dots upon the
world with wings, remind us now that
simple lives speak strongest, that what we
disregard reminds us of our momentariness,
that the fly who lives and dies within the day
lives just as long as those who stay into a
ripe old age that hopefully will speak its way
into the heart. If life demeaned cannot remind,
then how can life beyond be found? |