There was a village called civilisation Sir
Eliot's ancient village bought for a kiss
through an invisible pane of intelligence
Little remains of: nothing of the owners
eye after s/he auctioned his tongue, part
I from prayer, part stolen, silently wrapped
lustre of a son eying cold the sustenenance
Of oil and the horror of its contract longing
in a poetic soul and sold to the high caste.
There is a village called civilisation sir.
Serene small village, of infants blood sold
twice: once for money and once for love,
Earning its right to measure between what sun
And sibling moon the village accent shone
Reputations frankly bought, falls leavening
Neither truth nor lies, but in the equipoise
sounding classless, a twenty first century voice.
I apologise for breaking any rules, or causing offense.