She allowed herself to be inoculated
With the virus of terminal frivolity
And the careless self-indulgence of the Revelers.
Now when not engrossed in the mighty rumba,
She wanes to a pious child, tired feet giving way
To clasped hands, gaudy songs to low mutterings,
And the serum of my well-meaning scholarly prattle
Only makes her pray more feverishly, dance more wildly
To the myriad tunes blaring from the King's court.
I, the master plotter, came up with a brilliant strategy
But the wayward Pawn refused to take the Bishop
And the Black King slipped away unscathed.
Don't talk to her about war-torn Syria,
Or the Black King's madness (she will have none of that)
For she only wishes the music would play louder.
In a last-ditch effort I convened the council of the poets,
And they offered sound advice and ornate recitations,
But then, turned away and joined the happy Revelers.
The grass grew taller and the rebellious hand
Shirked away from the ‘intrusive' scythe,
So I got lost in my backyard, and the Black King sneered.
Topic(s) of this poem: dance, prayers
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.