O working men, o you servants;
Who among us has never wept?
Enduring humiliation
for fatuous queens.
To the rich we are a black box,
our antics are always Zani,
and our motives misunderstood.
To what better end?
Multitudes sift through the plaza,
their faces hidden beneath masks.
their purpose and aspirations,
a private affair.
Between sick Moon and dying Earth
a bedroom littered with white fur
and silver feathers conceals a
violent instrument.
Newborn queen bee, out of the hive!
Now we are all bereft of time;
never to seek a little dove,
nor to hope for more.