The Vulture

As we write, we shall write again
With cruel pains and on dark papers
We shall portray again and again
The statue of this once glorious vulture
This rough bird whose rumpled feathers
We are sure will have settled
And with pride we will write again.

As we sing today, we will sing again
Songs of joy, comfort, pain and aggression
We shall sing songs about the soaring vulture
That soars into the outer space
And sends its sharp, red eyes
Filled with cruelty, pride, and oppression
This perilous prey whose beaks gape
To threaten the gentle souls of parrots swallows, lapwings,
And even Eagles
But we are mindful of one thing
With mockery we will sing again.

Yet as we praise him, we won’t praise him again
As his might will finally disappear into oblivion
But we will write and write and write
To portray the statue of the fallen vulture
Where there shall be ridicule, retaliation, o-p-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n
And we will sing again and again
Songs of peace, harmony, but perhaps not compassion
We shall sing about the rising vulture
As he will rise to the sinking bottom
With its dull eyes, closed beaks
To be dethroned by the eagle
Or even by the parrots, swallows, or the lapwings
So as we praise him today
We won’t praise him again
If we do, then it will be with mockery, ridicule, oppression.