The world is lit by the grandeur of man
Fed by the grace of her hand
In communion with the soil.
Whose endless love,
Whose thankless toil;
With the last sun searing summer skies
Spilled out on borrowed land
Flames out with silent cries
“When then now will we reap our own?”
What generation after generation has sown
For all this we will not be spent:
The parasites can have our rent;
We will not be docile,
For the sins of our masters.
For the kingdom of heaven is of the broken,
For the kingdom of heaven is of the wretched,
For the kingdom of heaven will pay us a living wage;
Even the skies can hear your rage.
by Lilith Xseraph