Ignoble

Her sidelong glances shuddering

Like a cultured miasmas of suffering, 

Where the Sultan's daughters sit in alleys 

Begging bread from the muggers. 

The pattering of rain on bridges overhead

Remind one only of dead cooks fleeing

To the hidden wine cellar

Where distraught dancers fashion daggers into lances. 

The old master counts his coins

In rhythm to a man screaming about justice, 

Sounds conjuring images of knaves marching in a circus

To make good on their ancestor's curses. 

The wretched farmers wearied by life's distresses

Hurl their seeds at the stars to spite their oppressors, 

Praying to the gods to unfamish their daughters

And purify their hands, ignorant to subtle caresses.