They have lounged on grey midnight grass
wondering at the infinite stars
and their own smallness against them,
their fire-fly flash in time's eternity.
They have touched the sublime
and could only laugh.
It's a case of celebrating their poverty.
They have no defence against the prowling tiger
and are powerless against the raging seas.
They will never see as an eagle sees
and the questions that surround them
they can never think to answer.

They have descended into dark
gasping at bad air in sunken caves
for pursuits perilous but not evil.
Radical evil takes hold when 
a faceless few snatch the hard-won prizes
and those who risked everything
subsist at a minimum level.
What does it mean then to celebrate poverty?