Cru, the king is crowned. And he is gold like god. The men and women eat mud. They have hands that are mud. We eat mud, they say and smile. There are holes in their teeth when they smile, black. The men and women in rags like the mud.
They play in the mud. The mud is their friend. They have gods that look like mud and are made out of mud rocks. Too, their homes are made of mud. It is not privacy that tells them the wrong, the right. They do not wish to be private. Naked men and women do not care for privacy.
Cru, cru! The castle is on a hill. The king is in a tower. The tower is in the castle. The tower is tall. The king wears soft robes that are from rich places far from the castle. The rich places are in towns that have dissolved coast lines, triangle mountains: myth. The robes are stolen. The king rubs the robes and smiles. This is not mud, he thinks.
The mud huts dry in sun. The men and women have mud on their skin. Their skin cracks when the mud dries. Little lines of red, blood really, on their bodies. The cracked skin hurts.
The sun does not stop. There is no night. The mud huts catch on fire. Alas, the poor men and women are in the streets, and they are on fire. They too are on fire. Their cracked skin is burned. They are caked in fire. Poor people: they have no homes. Perhaps a storm will come, perhaps a rain will come, and this fire will stop.
The king walks inside. He calls for the men with the horns and the drums. They dance and sing and he smiles and taps his foot.