The Feast of Unworthy

They sit on thrones cushioned with lies,

hands clean, hearts heavy with gold.

No sweat on their brows,

no dust on their feet

yet their cups overflow.

They drink the labour of the poor

like devils sipping blood,

slow, satisfied, smiling

each drop a stolen hour,

each breath a stolen wage.

Palaces rise from calloused hands,

luxury blooms from empty stomachs.

Their nights are perfumed with comfort

while workers count stars

to forget hunger.

Down below,

men and women work

until the sun forgets their names.

They dig, lift, build, clean

work, work, work

yet a single piece of bread

remains a dream postponed.

Throats crack from thirst

while fountains dance in gated lawns.

Hands that feed the nation

cannot hold a drop of water.

who will take responsibility?

The ones who steal?

Or the system that crowns them?

Why does labour wear chains

while uselessness wears power?

Why is honesty poor

and corruption rich?

Why does status rise

not from merit,

but from betrayal?

Is the working soul

born lower?

Or made lower

to keep the throne untouched?

This is not destiny.

This is design.

And one day,

the hungry will ask questions

louder than prayers.

The thirsty will demand answers

sharper than silence.

Because no empire survives forever

on stolen blood.