MEN ON A DUNGHILL

She was never a wasteland or hills so bare and patched nor valleys so dry and deep…
Evergreen, forested, untouched, virgin and flourishing are words best to describe this arid, drought stricken place…
I see the hills and valley sides, leavened with dung and feces from over bloated cows, fed and satiated with the much she held in time past…
A land dry not for want of water, rain or sunshine but defaced by drought of truth and justice!
Void of character and passion for good, a superimposition of piety; patched by the heat from the conflagration of acts of hate, greed and frowardness…
Where their acts have ruined the art; a bruised culture likened to the discomfort of a moldering waste on a dunghill!
Trapped to the burdening scrip, standing on rejected piles from the town dwellers; scavenging and pilfering through the wastes and rubbish; compelled by a self…