Like grapes beneath the feet of slaves
Beneath the feet of citizens of Rome,
The huddled masses here have come
As score on score of generations before.
Two centuries unto another half,
The pressure mounts as old hysteria
Begins to rise against a veiled indenture.
Cacophony shouts against whose chains?
The false religions raise their handiwork,
Their graven images are cells of self-delight.
A washing of the blood from Pilate’s hands
Leaves not the citizens, but slaves to blame
For pressing grapes as they were paid to do,
Like fleeing being crushed like grapes for wine.