Do the people know
Where all their prayers go?
In their being satisfied
Bodies blackened, shrunken, dry.

The trees are heavy
With fruit that was born to rot.
The bands that reach to grasp the boughs
Find themselves starved of souls.

They are the water
Feeding the roots of the parasites
to bow before the masters
the idols grown from wood.

We drink from the water
Bled from evil's root
Will we learn to cry
For the fool's sake?

They come to cleanse their woes
Like silhouettes in the fog
To grasp the diseased fruit
Ripe in famine's orchard.

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