WHEN THE TAX COLLECTOR COMES

When the tax collector comes
In his armored stance of stony glare
Bear him to the field of my hollow penury
If he reasons
I should grow, we may be friends
When he comes
Flapping his files of oppressive records
Lead his feet to the heart of my yard
That he may smile at the grin of curious corpses
Of toddlers buried at the grip of preventable fever
Of mothers that end at the passage of child bearing
Of travelers whose flesh feed the holes of ugly paths
Of the innocents swallowed by the bullet of no-safety
If he thinks
He knows a gift of vestal poisons eunuch's virtue

When the tax collector comes
Make his congealed eyes sight the sore of my deprivations
That he may cease to sort to sulk from my empty pot of hope
When he comes
Ranting in his warring robe and anger
Armed with his ink and friendless smile
Bring him forth
That he may risk the fury of penniless buglars
And lick from the pains of unpaid workers
If he thinks
He knows he keeps the trust of a stateless state

When the tax collector comes
With his heavy heart of impassive glare
Bear him to the knowledge my abuse
If he thinks
He knows the unjust of his justice
Then we may be friends