A poem about not closing one's eyes to the suffering of others...
Inside the citadel, all is fine, all is well,
And no one hears the tolling of the bell;
Young people, struggling, no work at all,
Unseen, invisible, behind a towering wall,
Quite desperation, casual work, then none,
The cracks between, shadows in the sun;
They met together to share bread in dismay,
How many times to promise, then betray?
The wasteland of youth; a generation lost,
Because the rulers would not pay the cost;
Smug, satisfaction, doing the best they can,
A neatly ordered world; a fine financial plan;
But will there be justice, come one fine day?
Bankers bonuses, valued talent, so they say,
Neither sow, no reap, a different kind of toil;
Not hard work like those who plough the soil,
And sell for a pittance, when others set the rate,
At which good food ends up on rich man's plate;
Outside that all, the lost, handicapped, remain;
And they have no voice, and others cry in vain,
For inner blindness has come to blind the sight:
Men would sooner live in dark than see the light;
And here is desolation, hell built brick by brick,
Into luxurious apartments behind walls so thick,
They prevent the screams of those outside in pain;
Passing by on the other side, go by another lane,
So as not to see the victim, calling out to blame,
But consider reputation, and never feel shame
For everyone can be an island, cut off by a sea,
While others are means tested, charged a fee;
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is fairest of all:
Nemesis after hubris, pride before a fall.
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