The covetous lords

Enthroned upon their gold, they sit unmoved,
The land's faint voice they scorn, unheeded, proved.
Their fingers thick and fat, from greasy fare,
With hungry point, they mark their destined snare.

The sword already raised, prepared to fight,
A shadow, never sated, haunts the light
Across the land where lamentations breed,
Like howling wind that whips through every reed.

Deaf, without grace, their bulging coffers teem,
With gold, and blood, and tears that darkly gleam.
The backs of their poor souls, in weary bend,
Beneath the crushing weight their masters send.

Outside, a child weeps, with eyes so deep,
The land is hushed, as in a deathly sleep,
A silence keen, that cuts like blade through bone.
A tangible unease, beneath the soil is sown,
Awaiting, growing, nurtured by despair.