A lute strums beyond the window,
florins gleam on the fresh, white cloth:
the ledger can contrive the polis;
empty hands can always grasp death.
Across vistas workers die,
across time the campecinos are gleaned
In Spain, in Greece, in Guatemala,
in Chile and El Salvador,
his wit unleashed a bloodlust.
Such a simple, civilized gesture, such a profound
and clever invention: the coins gleam like drops
of golden blood.