The silk lines billow far out
in the thin sky
saturated with light blue sunshine.
I hold them together
in my left fist
on my hi-tech chariot;
my right hand twists
and we are loose from earth.
The silken lines undulate
gallop the golden stallions
as I observe the people
releasing the flavours of their foods
the clench of cereals, the delights of fruit,
the iron of flesh, the sere of burnt blood
coming to me in a gracious sine curve.
It seems nothing has changed much
since the first chariot chase;
men still do not look
me straight in the face,
building dynasties on the sherds of others,
to supply the noble rubble
on which to found new fallacies.