Screams echo into drops of blood
That scorches my heart.
And the eagle is again on its hunt
For the innocent ones.
Humbled ones are condemned in this world.
Precious ones are the ones with treacheries.
They whisper lies into your eyes.
And they weep of vice
That drips on to the ground,
Corroding holes that sieve out the good.
Then they feast on you.
They drain your brain,
Chew on your flesh
And spit out your bones.
You will realize nothing of yours left,
But your outcries sublime,
Joining your innocent companions,
Into the torrents of lamentations
That drive the world crazy.
© Paul Po Lo Chan September 2013