The Dead

Some people never smile -
they are like horses,
only far less
beautiful.

They bitch and they moan,
and they sulk,
and they take the piss,
laughing from green
distended lips.

Some people never smile -
only at the misfortune of others.
They cry at the thought
of the dead and suffering in Calcutta,
but they spit in the faces
of their sisters and brothers.

They give not a nod
of exception,
nor a wink
of understanding,
but rather a snarl, hidden
in the corner of a smile.

They consummate
in the act of hate,
by honour they're beguiled:
they are the dead
of a million
golden, gleaming
graves.