The humiliation of the fake great
is the greatest greatness of all.
Nothing conquers but is conquered.
One distant guide will not fall.
One eternal mind knows
much more than the fake great knows.
It is difficult to reconcile sly virtue
with its feathered hate.
The wilderness breathes its venom
upon the foggy gate.
Humility is humiliated
by hungry armies raised
by one who isn’t lazy—
whose army of misfits—they say—
had been lazy for days;
and with cruelty he conquers the less cruel
along the languid plains of India,
and under shady ridges builds a better school.
The humiliated were conquered. They learned
to build better ships. Gold and romance
crushed music—which intricately yearned.
Everything is too intertwined
to find a lone good.
Humiliation of the fake great
is how the serene masters, full of hope, understood
all they knew—and the first time you saw it
you understood
what this poem was trying to say:
Now you are not so sure.
Nothing is pure.
The craven have decided to make jewelry, again.
Jewelry hangs down from ugly ears.
The fake great is launching its campaign—
captured women watch captured men.
The great is humiliating the great, again.