sometimes I miss being a peasant
I looked into it, it was peasants all the way down
we were not made to be individuals
when I dance you say
‘there’s not enough acting’
And you are right
To aspire to anything more than the land is like an animal wearing a little cape
Who would it be for?
And it would be enough to have some butter, the odd potato!
And who even were our ‘ancestors’?
A fatherless father is a broken twig
Compelled to feather his own nest
(he did it beautifully, I love you, Dad)
But the golden age becomes the silver, the iron, the plastic
I was not made for anything more than the festival
roped to the sun
and the random appearance of birds
and what are words
but herbs without scent