The crowd draws near. In the central square of the town of green they wait for him. His weekly addresses are so full of charm and kindness, the townsfolk are held in intense anticipation. They call to him in soft tones, wooing him gently. One villager says, “Oh please dear One, grace us with your presence and we will be forever indebted.” Just for a glance in their direction, he has flowers thrown at his feet. They gather around him cooing and whispering, dedications of love, like honey pouring from their mouths. Staring rapt at his visage, they toss gold and silver coins all around him in shower of glitter. Worshiping the very ground he walks on. He grins in satisfaction at the warmth and love of his constituency.
All the while, the peasants line the alleyways, cloaked in shadow for the light does not touch them the way is does him. They are sobbing with dry eyes, for their bellies are hungry, their lips are cracked and bleeding because there is no clean water for them to drink. One solitary gold coin would feed them and quench their thirst for a month and yet, they must bear witness to the townsfolk showering the Prince with all manners of finery. His belly is full, and his lips are moist, and their hearts are lost in hopelessness.