By Yasen Vedrin
(The Bulgarian Chronicles -
Chronicles of the Fall)
With respect and reverence to Oscar Wilde!
The power hasn't read a poet's line!
In rhymes it doesn't read a single thing!
Just hand it roses, confetti, and design,
So in its greed and appetite it can spring!
The power, sadly, doesn't hear the groan.
It listens out for hymns and altars high.
From people's pain it heals itself alone —
By bowing down to Mammon with a sigh.
The power doesn't want the heavy weight.
It is enough of a burden on its own.
When pressed into a corner, filled with hate,
With measured lies it slips away, unknown.
The power eats and never has its fill.
With vacuum force it sucks up every cent.
It leaves behind charred ashes on the hill,
Yet keeps its luxury, completely well content.
The power is like stone, heartless and cold.
A Medusa — turning every life to clay.
Unstable, distant, impossible to hold.
Guilty... With no one convicted to this day.
The power is a chasm. Into hell it sinks.
A cruel portrait of some glossy Gray...
And even if it tells you youth it drinks,
Do not accept it ever... Turn away!
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