Thursday, 7 February 2013
It was not enough to take what they had and humble them in the streets before man as I will you, before God. Even ripping away babies at breast to behead their powdered skin mothers.
Dancing in the streets with sightless eyed heads upon poles.
While your Marat bathes in their tubs waiting to be shaved a little too well by a wench tired of living.
Only the genius of a Blake or Sir Hugo can find any beauty,
separating what little justice and/or mercy that remains and telling us, by doing so,
we might still have a little grace left, perhaps even...a few more centuries of such folly.
I am Gabriel now, but my sword never thirsted for so much blood.
Let me relent but a little...just to find something that might temper this fury shaking its fists
all the way to the Gates of Heaven.
The light of early morning fell through
the garret opening with warmth to touch,
arouse, to tender. Mingling with window bars
it sent their image with itself, along its
downward course. The smoke of mist it raised
gathered on the glass to pull the air's last
restraint to day, the frost, and inward still
crept upon the corners least its showers for
the panes be lost.
Swollen near a hand might move to kindle
yet its own...and inward, too, a tribute owed
that a new warmth paid.
A face would raise, a tear would fall and
mingle with the dust as scaffolds would
upon the panes presently adjust.
Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak
Posted by Torz Baron-Copley at Thursday, February 07, 2013