We can't imagine ultimate power raised
to the power of ultimate power.
The mysteries are arcane;
the arguments might be insightful,
but mostly, in the end, are of no use.
We have to decide for ourselves.
I can't abide any longer the local legend,
one born thousands of miles away.
Its exporters threw babies into fires
and raped women and obliterated the land.
"Manifest Destiny," and all that.
They built spires and big buildings
with rows and rows of pews;
and there they ignored the pleading in the streets,
the gurgles of empty stomachs,
the reach of tired hands.
Those buildings' walls are thick for a reason.
They donned white hoods
and burned crosses, and hung those
who didn't look or believe as they did;
they stoked ovens and marched millions into them;
and today, in this vast and tortured land,
they want to bring all that back:
Make America Great Again.
Their ostensible monarch lived impoverished
and died horribly.
He would recoil in horror at what
they do in his name.
They cling to magic tricks he never performed,
and they clutch his moldering robes,
but they give not a single damn
about his true gifts: his quiet words,
his eloquent and simple moral code,
the example of his humble life.
Ultimate Power raised to the power of ultimate power
is no monarch,
but the ultimate democrat,
always giving away that power.
Not a judge, but a guide.
Not a ruler, but a friend.
Not a church,
but a landscape.
One we can despoil,
or one we can celebrate and find
authentic peace in.