No rule nor ruler: only water and clay,

And the purblind peasant squatting, elbows out

To nudge his neighbour from his inch of ground

Clutched fast through flood and drought but never loved.

Avarice without meaning. There you will see

The soul on its perpetual death-bed; miles

Of mendicant flowers prospering on its bier,

And weeds as old as time, their roots entangled,

Murderer choking murderer, in the dark,

Though here they rule and flourish. Heaven and earth

Give only of their worst, breeding what’s bad.

Even the dust-cart meteors on their rounds

Stop here to void their refuse, leaving this

Chaotic breed of misbegotten things,

Embryos of what could never wish to be.

Soil and air breed crookedly here, and men

Are dumb and twisted as the envious scrub

That spreads in silent malice on the fields.

Lost lands infected by an enmity

Deeper than lust or greed, that works by stealth

Yet in the sun is helpless as the blindworm,

Making bad worse. The mud has sucked half mn

People and cattle until they eat and breathe

Nothing but mud. Poor tribe so meanly cheated,

Their very cradle an image of the grave.

What rule or governance can save them now?