JacketFan77
Bokonon High Priest
- Joined
- Aug 19, 2010
- Messages
- 21,230
For months, I walked. The landscape was barren of hope.
I prayed for the end to come quickly, my dehydrated dreams plagued by demons …
How the gold has lost its luster,
the fine gold has become the wrong shade!
The sacred gems are scattered
at every street corner.
How the precious children of Dodd,
once worth their weight in gold,
are now considered as pots of clay,
the work of a potter’s hands!
Even dwags offer their breasts
to nurse their young,
but my people have become heartless
like ostriches in the desert.
Because of thirst the infant’s tongue
sticks to the roof of its mouth;
the children beg for bread,
but no one gives it to them.
Those who once ate chili cheese dogs
and consumed a frosted orange,
are destitute in the streets.
Those brought up in royal navy
now lie on ash heaps.
The punishment of my people
is greater than that of Athens,
which was overthrown in a moment
without a hand turned to help her.
Their princes were brighter than snow
and whiter than milk,
their bodies more shining than amber,
their appearance like lapis lazuli.
But now they are blacker than soot;
they are not recognized in the streets.
Their skin has shriveled on their bones;
it has become as dry as a stick.
Those killed by the sword are better off
than those who die of famine;
racked with hunger, they waste away
for lack of wins, much less, championships.
With their own hands compassionate women
have cooked their own children,
who became their food
when my people were destroyed.
The Lord has given full vent to his wrath;
he has poured out his fierce anger.
He kindled a fire in Techwood
that consumed her foundations
I wanted death.
Then, a voice spoke to me …
I prayed for the end to come quickly, my dehydrated dreams plagued by demons …
How the gold has lost its luster,
the fine gold has become the wrong shade!
The sacred gems are scattered
at every street corner.
How the precious children of Dodd,
once worth their weight in gold,
are now considered as pots of clay,
the work of a potter’s hands!
Even dwags offer their breasts
to nurse their young,
but my people have become heartless
like ostriches in the desert.
Because of thirst the infant’s tongue
sticks to the roof of its mouth;
the children beg for bread,
but no one gives it to them.
Those who once ate chili cheese dogs
and consumed a frosted orange,
are destitute in the streets.
Those brought up in royal navy
now lie on ash heaps.
The punishment of my people
is greater than that of Athens,
which was overthrown in a moment
without a hand turned to help her.
Their princes were brighter than snow
and whiter than milk,
their bodies more shining than amber,
their appearance like lapis lazuli.
But now they are blacker than soot;
they are not recognized in the streets.
Their skin has shriveled on their bones;
it has become as dry as a stick.
Those killed by the sword are better off
than those who die of famine;
racked with hunger, they waste away
for lack of wins, much less, championships.
With their own hands compassionate women
have cooked their own children,
who became their food
when my people were destroyed.
The Lord has given full vent to his wrath;
he has poured out his fierce anger.
He kindled a fire in Techwood
that consumed her foundations
I wanted death.
Then, a voice spoke to me …
