(Admonition of the Proletariat)

Savages lack a proper understanding of things.
Our tongues stutter, slobbering with impotence,
dripping nonsense, crude as the black iron rods
that reach into the skies to seal the holy task
of fulfilling imperial laws infallible, as such:
We live off sacrifice. As the ascent is fast.
He faithfully demands collective will and pyre.

We, cogs and fodder, dare not ask of Sage
our hearts’ lament (Cacique’s bile): to persevere,
our common bodies forged into hammers and wheels,
settling the foundation of the City of Kings,
when our arms to august exorcism freeze, deaden?
O Mud are we the Visionary thrusts in the pillars,
His eyes gazing down, but O from us askance!

Our cries echo, die ... And true to our ignorance,
we recollect bones, past, finding ancestral means:
scythes, hammers and knives to chisel off the chains.
Women thus no longer mock for adhering to palaver:
(Keep low children in thrall and follow the Peer...)
Our madness rallies spirits dead to smash the Idol
and spill His blood, for verily our Kingdom tolls!

—Vibora