We're hungry for a mordant rage, Food’s too difficult to come by. When fury finally puts its hand on us, The world will further its slope. The days since she first began listing In an ocean of grief, we’ve encouraged, Applauded a wrathful clout like apes beating Chests, shrieking allegiance to suffering. There are gleaming waters here. There are Gardens and farms. And trees, Scorched and naked, still feeding off the sun. Hunger won’t seek nourishment there; hunger Will find its prey bathed in light, in slant of clay And stone, camouflaged like angry hunters Enshrined in huts of flesh. O! Summon the rain So things might grow instead of die! Call out to the hunters, send forth violent man, Bring him before the world, under the sun, Called away from his wars and mad pillaging, Stand him up to see his soiled use, Force his blind eyes open to see the ruin. His sloping death called back from the edge, Useless furor breathing a most foul hatred. We’re hungry for
(The Weaver's Song)