From lack of love, I will not ever die,
so says the stingy, cold, and lordly rage
imprisoned with pride inside his gilded cage,
conversing with a pretty, blonde, white lie.
And let them lift their glasses, raise a toast
to wish the whole world ill in ancient Greek,
forever finding fault. And let them boast
like Belshazzar who feasted, while the meek,
thin, ragged Daniel fed on yeast-free bread,
while understanding what the king could not,
interpreting what royals had forgot,
seeing the privileged ones were good as dead –
that Love which made this vast, black Universe
his cure for any demagogue’s blank curse.