Small to the Finish

The mountains have run out of gold, and those who mine them understand what is next to come. Stack exhaustion on top of collapse and commercial law still tips the scales. Mighty ones are never full. Their mouths gap open with no intent to chew. Do you think your simple gift of fish and bread will turn back their expectation? They will reward their hounds with your offering. Brutish men can not be accommodated through the palate. They swallow whole anything that does not have the good sense to run far and fast. If your tally falls short, they shall make your sons their cup bearers. Your wives will keep their houses under the strict command of a headmistress. All men of a fit age will line the streets in motionless heaps. Who dares to oppose? Soldier faint within their armor. Warhorses veer off into the thicket. A scattered world of half-free wilderness dwellers melt before an all too familiar trumpet blast. The tall hide behind trees, and the wide bury themselves in town rubbage. It is now up to the small. I call upon grains of sand to clog rotating gears. A mosquito is adequate to spread fever in their encampments. No one can contend with the chief captain, but even he may choke upon a dry morsel from his ration. Scraps of tin and broken glass will redirect the brilliant light of the sun into their eyes. The rumble of their advance works to our favor as mice scurry before us as an alarm. Thorns from the aloe vera have enlisted. Balm for us, cuts for them. These giants will not be toppled by catapults, battering rams, or cannons. They will succumb to everything they can barely see without magnification. Isn't that a sight; a tiger lying belly up, groaning his last from the infectious bite of an ant.