Our ancestors who took opium
given by others, and gave up
their own narcotics for the sake
of existence or mirage-greed
that made them trade over again,
look back only and feel the light
of moving as will o’ the wisp;
and that drunkenness still makes you
move against from top to bottom
and makes itself a scale for you
to gauge all men in your values
that are born-blind, primal and false.
You still look for medication
for all troubles in that opium,
and we living in the margin
are thrown away then to the edge—
farthest— sometimes to the dustbin.
That time is perhaps yet to come
for people living on the edge
when all the power of the centre
budges to the fists of their hands,
when they can live in their own time.
So the plowing of the good time
this time is made in the hard times
and the fertile land is just proved
to be infertile, sterile one.
Yet you don’t want to accept it—
the seeds with insects never yield
the bumper crops; but in the soil
of gold-yielding alluvial plains
you’re still sowing the opium seeds.