Backward laws and banished hopes,
Unjust enough to boil the blood,
As in dead earth, a conscience copes,
The poppies wither into mud.
Myths that soothe, die at a glance,
Jokes prick the mind but still the heart,
To watch and pass, at every chance,
To tear a rotten world apart.
And from their core: the beggars cry,
To ears that hear but do not heed,
To fight the solid, stable lie,
That all that drives the world is greed.