Canto V

Canto V

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 Resurrection 

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