Short-Stick Puller

It's easy to sit on top of the castle and

Whine

About the weather.

It's easy to comb long, locks untouched by

The day's ruthless work and

Moan

About the bitter, under-salted food

With the audacity to taste dissimilar to ambrosia.

.

It's harder to moan about the dampness of the earth

Or the chill in the air

When worked knuckles bleed with gratitude

Into the rising yeast

Of the first meal in a week.

It's impossible to taste fury when

There is a flavour to taste at all

After weeks of water and cabbage-scented soup.

.

The luxury of complaint

Comes from the loudest voices

Twiddling their thumbs from a place

Of perfect opportunity

But it flows across the valleys and fills

The suffering heads far below listen.

They hear.

And they disagree with the concept

Of equality.

.

It never existed.

It cannot exist.

Not when the whining souls

Stand on a pedestal and bemoan

The horrible unfairness of being born

Under a lucky star,

Right into a golden bassinet.

Where can rusty pitchforks go

But back into the hay?

.

The perpetual short-stick pullers

Would like a chance to suck on a silver spoon.

What luck it would be to taste a sweet

And choose to push it aside!

They would like to sleep.

To dream of something beyond.

They would like a chance to whine

Over the useless things too.

.

Nathalie Daux

.