Hungrily you will search in the darkened void, swiftly
you will pounce on the silver shadow....
Then you will rise again, bearing in your beak the
struggling prey,
And your lousy lords, whose rings are upon your
throats, will take from you the catch, giving in its
place a puny wriggler which can pass the gates of
straw.
Such is your servitude.

Yet willingly you sit, lurching and half asleep.
The boatmen shout one to another in nasal discords.
Lazily you preen your great wings, eagle wings,
built for the sky;
And you yawn....

Faugh! The sight of you sickens me, divers in inland
filth!
You grow lousy like your lords,
For you have forgotten the sea.

Wusih


A Scholar

You sit, chanting the maxims of Confucius.
On your head is a domed cap of black satin and your
supple hands with their long nails are piously
folded.