(for the city that devours its own)

---

In the court of the one-eyed king,

the scribes bend their spines like wilted reeds,

etching lies in the wind.

---

Who will count the stolen moons?

Who will measure the grain of the poor

spilled beneath gold-tipped boots?

---

The horn is cracked,

the drum chokes on silence,

and the river no longer knows its name.

---

Was it not foretold?

That the serpent would return in the night,

that the priests of the market square

would trade blood for bread?

---

Ogiame, we are here again,

ankle-deep in the filth of the old masquerade,

where the dancers forget the song,

but still, they dance—

still, they dance—

on hollow ground.

---

Where is the rain?

Where is the rain?

We have poured oil on the shrine,

but the fire spits back darkness.

---

The gods have turned their backs,

the unborn wail in the belly of time.

And still, the one-eyed king sits

on his throne of empty calabashes.