There sounds a low thunder in the distance
Upon the sands of wanderers and kings.
Shaking fault-line, phone-tower, tax-cars,
And all the stable, stone, and faithful things.
There's a place called Market that's seen better days,
And a square in town where markets must close,
For we must fear the loss of numbers green-gold.
"Forget the lightning. What threat does it pose?"
The habits of the healthy heal not home.
And the homeless go marching: conscripting.
Here come Homeless Habits with healing hearts
"Alms for poor? For yourselves?" They cry: begging.
There shines a dim lightning beyond the sea,
To brighten stairs of saw-dust and silver.
The Kingdom demands taxes: blood and sweat.
And debts best be payed or justice delivered.