Paint this scene again,

looking through a starved peasant's eyes.

The golden castle atop the hill

and its gates of Heaven glisten

with the polish of sweat in the sun.

Can you see them guard the gates—

the men with the pistols and the firearms,

and masses of dead flies at their feet?

Paint this scene this way,

so I can hang it on the walls

of my private room

before it slips away,

one day.