Meed

The village was dark, snoring, dead— 
it was then the robbers climbed 
the wall, treading its cobbled path, 
carving into stone their ill-intentioned chime. 

Come morning over the wronged-stone wall, 
and dawn, the terror of night sublime— 
behold the hearth of the people’s hearts: 
peace, one can no longer find. 

Flout your eyes on all who carry 
their chests across the cobbled path, 
and do not cower behind the blinds— 
grow in your stolen chests more wrath. 

Be not each chiding child who streets adorn 
with laughs and merry, joyous cries— 
Silence for the outburst of grieving moans 
of the elders who around the fire lie.

The theft took place upon the peace of death of day; 
the death of night brought an end to peace. 
But where is the stolen, and the stealer who may 
the wall punish for its treacherous deed? 

Hither, come O children— 
the hearth is not your parents’ meed.