The interior of Algarve has in the summer heat
an African feel, waterholes are getting smaller
and mules must be careful not to be caught by
lions that lurk in the chaff, seed of things made
golden by the sun, but ultimately just TV trash
blinding us so we don't see the lovely animal
called Reality. Endless rolling news, tragedy is
entertainment, transient fame of those who
want to be famous without doing homework,
end up as husks blowing in the wind, belittled
on the throne of craving for amusement by
the unthinking, who do not see blood and circus
are dust of distraction by the powerful so we
do not see how our freedom is eroded before
it is too late, and there are no lions left.
