What's this?
I'm invited to a great feast?
But here I stand, lost
in the yard,
amongst officials
in tail-coats,
luring me to a boat
moored on the shore.
They are the ones appointed
to lead me to the treat.

How have I, of all men,
women and sick children,
deserved a lavish dinner?
The whole country is in turmoil.
Houses are on fire.
Blood in the rivers.
Roads are deserted.
Shops are closed.
Weeping at every doorstep.
And I have been chosen
to represent this people,
to put their case at the banquet.

The women came to me
with clay pots.
How can I stand before them
with a golden bowl
that's totally empty,
shaking in my hands
while shame and dark regrets
rise up in my soul.
What am I to do now?
How can I ferry them over
to the feast?