Everybody
wants to be king
of a hill
and that hill
just a pile
of dust
hot and red
and dry
or a dungheap
so silent
and stinking
with malice.

And yet
with more kings
than hills
and more dirt
than heart
and more dung
than wisdom
we just
collect hurt
and more hurt

from wounds
and from cuts
and from boots
on small faces
from despairing cries
and from silence
and malice

we just build more hills.