We Are Poor, But Rich

They mist the air with confetti and wild blarings,
We beshield mother-earth with jasmine and banter hums.

They stuff pennies in coffins and ovens,
We loose diamonds and golds to mother-earth to keep.

They frown and freeze in hollowed chambers,
We feast and flick in rainbow-ing straws.

They pride in junks from foreign lands,
We assure our bowels with roots and leaves.

They pine their distress in self-pity,
We commune our woes in set circles.

They breed their sprats for the over-seise,
We soil ours on the trail of our fathers.

They fear the coldness of our holy war,
We kindle the forces of our greatness in wars.

They wrinkle from strange skin-scraping oils,
We are resplendent from the milk of olive.

They are careful in every short-lived trod,
We perch on figs and twigs like birds.

They preach of wealth and abundance,
Yet we suckle the emptiness in our mother's breast.

We are the living skulls in the streets of Half-frica,
Pitied by the very ones who tear us apart.
We are the ones holding the edges of this circle, yet scolded, hated, skunked, beaten, and beguiled by the coldness of these black hearts who paint our names in blood and blood.
We are the victims of Hades in Elysium;
the victims of the wrongs of their rights