The Village

My vision attacked by a haunted gaze,

As it feels has been all my days,

Staring up at this ungodly tower.

How high does it go?

I come from a village of tiny homes,

Wrecked with hunger and loss.

To see such a structure caressing the heavens,

Lights fire to my brimstone soul.

“How could someone own such a thing?”

“Whatever could one do with it?”

“The space endless, the view unending!”

But still he sits upon his bench and stares.

Up at this building, how high does it go?

No man on God’s earth will ever know.

So the man left that marble bench,

Returning to his humble cottage.

When the man looked outside,

To his surprise,

A man dressed elegantly top to his unscuffed boots.

“Who could this man be?”

The man sat not on a bench or on a stool,

But on the ground, in the mud, and hay.

Gazing upon the village people as they worked and played.

“What I wouldn’t give for just one day outside of my misery”

“This man is not like any other I’d say.”

“To have so much and want so little?”

“For what have we that he would desire?”

Still the suited man sat in the grass.

“To have a lot is to have nothing at all.

Here you have both large and small.

Children happy to see their Mum,

And a Father to teach hard work, ethics and love.”

How could I forsake my peace,

Forget my little village.

This man had all, but was never happy.

For this forgetfulness I must repent.

Let there be no dismay, 

Nor sadness in your choice

Take a day to sit in the grass,

Listen to your Village’s voice.