By Yasen Vedrin
(The Copper Bowl)
A sad world — an arena for the heirs.
The clash, alas, is known before the dawn.
The plebeians freeze in glaciers of despairs,
While expensive dapper men get tanned and drawn.
The poor man stops his counted patches keeping,
His debts constrain him in a nightmare tight.
The rich man changes thrills while others weeping:
Today — a yacht. Tomorrow — shopping sight.
With cursing words, his calluses now cutting,
The deadly tired porter groans in pain.
While every hour, aerosol sprays shutting,
A bored king changes crowns to rule his reign.
The battlefield is hidden from our eyes,
In invisible fights it bleeds and turns.
The diverse stage attracts us with disguise,
And ready in a flash, it traps and burns.
In that grim clash of heirs that never ceases,
With the yellow metal as a referee...
The poor are always crushed to broken pieces.
A toast to Caesar! From crystal cups with glee!
Ave, Caesar! Yours is the arena!
You crushed and won again, you hold the blade...
And the plebeian’s blood, in red and cleaner,
Leaves heavy drops and traces that won't fade.
In a sad world... Arena of the vile,
Sinking in its foul and stenchful flesh.
But past the edge, the unknown waits a while...
Abba Father! You will judge afresh!
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