For the dverse prompt, a poem about division.
From the first city wall, enclosing culture, the arts,
where cathedrals sprang from the earth,
where books were written and illuminated,
the word, the light, the power grew,
and beyond, in the furrowed fields,
in the labour of man beasts and beast men,
the light never shone.
We, in our fields, where there are no schools,
no doctors, where culture is the bar,
the hunt, corrida, the yearly village feast,
watch with sullen faces the shining people
from the big cities swan in their big cars
to watch the unfolding of rustic life,
like a Shakespearean play, waiting to laugh
at our antics, sample the simple life
of pool and restaurant, and the gulf grows
wider than the first fools ever knew.