More wood, more fire, More orgies! My power shall not stand Diminished in any way. The jewels in my crown, Those trophies of battle, That glory of being The Master of his men. The vile slavery of my serfs — shall I let go of it? More orgies, more food, More laurels to my power! Shall a mere tree come in my way? What shall I make my men do? Eat roots when they can have pheasant stew? That last tree shall give me wood, And they – those serving men – They shall chop it, and burn it. The cooking-men will stir the pots; The hunting-men shall find for me - Pheasants, and deer and turtles; The growing men shall bring me Wheat, and rice and cotton; The weaver-men, and the barber-men And the potter-men and other men, They shall all ply their trades. And I: I keep the peace among them, I throw them my table-scraps, And they shall be fed And be happy. They shall not murmur And swear oaths and secrets Or in any manner rise against me. No more wood be there to burn? What matter? We shall burn coal....
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.