The Peasant Orator
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The Peasant Orator By: Tejas Ranade
2008 “Arise, arise, arise!” he claims to the city of listless bones That stands him up on their granite podium, mirth Etched into the desolate wastes around their piteous homes – Crying tears of air, they eat his words in satiation like dark earth.
Voices blacked out by the cowering bursts of cars Traveling towards the obviated byline, skyline of scrapers – Those lords of steel, that which drives men to naught But racing ivy hearts and the warm embrace of the glass.
They blind themselves with soft promises of their elusive pets, Hungry creatures feeding on their masters’ mores. The shabby man who thus preaches to the mass assembled loftily Is drowned out by the howling of those agitating dogs.
The sunrise too close for mortal comfort, they uneasily stir, Eyes drifting listlessly from the speakers’ words to his face. And the masses, those piteous, helpless, masses, lay over Their desolate caverns of smoke, cheering the mute peasant.
2008 “Arise, arise, arise!” he claims to the city of listless bones That stands him up on their granite podium, mirth Etched into the desolate wastes around their piteous homes – Crying tears of air, they eat his words in satiation like dark earth.
Voices blacked out by the cowering bursts of cars Traveling towards the obviated byline, skyline of scrapers – Those lords of steel, that which drives men to naught But racing ivy hearts and the warm embrace of the glass.
They blind themselves with soft promises of their elusive pets, Hungry creatures feeding on their masters’ mores. The shabby man who thus preaches to the mass assembled loftily Is drowned out by the howling of those agitating dogs.
The sunrise too close for mortal comfort, they uneasily stir, Eyes drifting listlessly from the speakers’ words to his face. And the masses, those piteous, helpless, masses, lay over Their desolate caverns of smoke, cheering the mute peasant.
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