It was not just Morteza who cried out. 
Many voices rose in futile protest 
while the bloated king sat in self-admiration 
in his mirror-filled room, 
plotting, scheming, bellowing out boasts, 
a nightmare combination of rat-cunning and vanity,
while fog, carrying poisonous toxicity, 
made an insidious way through the entire city.

It wound past the manicured lawns
of the who-gives-a-shit grifters. 
It dispersed into potholed suburbs
where deserted factories with broken windows 
cried out against abandonment. 
It whispered promises of restored privilege. 
It sung of entitlement and revenge. 
It celebrated division, greed and hate.  

Morteza believed in the cleansing wind, 
the knowledge that one fine day 
a fair breeze would blow the fog away. 
What he feared was lingering toxicity
rendering his loved city into the likeness 
of a bed-ridden patient whose vitality 
has evaporated and whose sole remaining joy 
lies in raising the flag of long gone glory
as each successive day fades further 
into enfeebled diminishment. 
                        

Morteza dreamt of a house 
with golden doors open wide,
liberty written on its walls
and equality glowing inside. 

Then he saw smiling thieves
in tailored suits and ties,
deceitful intent glibly oiled
by well-practiced lies. 

They stole the shining treasure,
stripped the jeweled beams,
carried off the golden orbs
that lit the House of Dreams. 

They left the merest shadow,
a painted, empty facade,
and everything they spewed out
was stained deceptive fraud. 

Then he awoke drenched
from the horror he had seen.
Blood was oozing through the door
of the ruined House of Dreams.

You who with me rule, listen: 
Shed no tears for the dead and dying.
There is no money in that.
Think not upon the future.
Take your profit now.
Poverty and inequality are always with us.
Your wealth is yours alone. 
Come.
I set you free.
Accept liberty. 
Insularity 
is security, 
honesty
a mere commodity. 
Gather to yourself
beautiful wealth.
Go forth.
Exploit, exploit, exploit.