They live on top of a hill,surrounded by swaying trees, ornate sculptures,and all their best defenses.
Tea is had whenever they please,dresses donned, delicate, useless threads and satin bows.They feel no need to masquerade, to hide their faces,for they live on top of a hill.
They call us by anything but our names,take anything but responsibility, andleave behind anything but riches.Every holiday is a celebration of them,worship for gods who somehow have their faces.
They’ve been here as long as the sun,and the sun has no intention of leaving.Every cake is iced with their crest,every statue with their conquests.The hill is dotted with theirphilanthropic contributions.
All maps put them in the middle,all books dedicated to their families,they lean over their balconies and wave broadly,for they cannot see where this all…