By Vincent Nelson
Trade by barter heralded your birth
cowries, coins, thy childhood
And now, notes
Yet, you look back at the years
Get drunk with your minute monuments
and bite these fingers that fed you.
In your successes, we discovered failures
Where your ego has reached, we decrease
The love of money; the root of evil
Oh, how little we knew!
Do we blame your existence?
Or rather blame ourselves for making you?
You circulate yourself unevenly
In abundance here, scarcely there
making yourself a god
Who do you think you are?
Do we actually say the love of money?
Or better still, the lust for money?
In this resolute prophecy;
Let it be inscribed that
One of these days,
Very, very soon I say
this sand, the very one under my foot
would worth much more than you’ve
ever worked to be!