Tell me something, monsieur,
Tell me something, my friend,
Tell me, then, what you have done to your soul?
What have you traded or bought, what was worth the light that was inside of you? A moment of pleasure? Did you feel divine? Did you sell your leisure for a taste of wine?
And have you turned these stones to bread?
But yet there's no one that you've fed.
You made this fat and starving race,
this prodigy, this damned disgrace,
that, longing still for something more—
through all their wealth, accounted poor—
their mouths, filled up with what won't fill,
all emptiness ground in their mill.
The word has failed, been crowded out.
From such bounty, they seek redoubt.
And have you thrown yourself into the sky?
Miracle turned spectacle that you survived?
Oh yes, I see how readily you fly,
how from your deadly wounds you were revived,
And are you such a saint as all here claim
when you court such ostentatious fame?
Your mercy now the world implores?
Does earth your fury rue?
Yet can you truly call it yours?
Who now rules over you?
Tale Told 