Fertile Soils Poem by Madrason .

I dictate
the dictator says
my syllables
are sharp like
Allah's bi-blades
like Kurma's shades
or Brahma's ferns
it earns and spurs
the seeds on deeds
of poetry
walking on high
heeled boots thatched
in the desert-sands
with silver-hands
in leather-gloves
and pointed match
they bow to me
unto the firm
of spoken word
in a democracy
a creed for deed
to stop the greed
and feed again
and not on oil
but on the fertile soil
of honesty.


Madrason 6 dec 2014