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Poem

The rooster calls us 
To the recurrent feasts of vultures
‘The Spirits amongst you, have prepared a table before us,’
The vultures vaunt vociferously
‘What Spirits…?’
‘The Spirits that outsmarts your soldiers
Which your Justicia herself cannot sentence’

‘Come quickly,’ they told themselves
‘To the butchers’ table of Plateau
Their losses are our own gains. 
It’s no business of ours
If they fail to leak the linchpins behind the lynches
And unmask their monstrous marionettes and masquerades
That now make us stable staple meals’

II
How long would we give free reins to these awful feasts?
And watch the cruel carnage of our kith and kin?
Hide, when henchmen hang our households

Who knows whose name is in the noose already? 
When shall we seize these scarpering Spirits? 
Before they host the vultures to another banquet

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