A scythe came to the harvest of
a thing still firm on its stem,
these tears are ascensions that
walk with the hindquarters of a ghost
Brash coloured highways of mottled history
Spurting the last marks of Eden
lodged deep in the guts of time fashioning
daily a flimsier name for death.
We faithfuls must sing brother,
The song of our soul.
We are birds of flight
Flightless, we put our dreams in
soul fashioned bodices;
we are nightingales where mornings are dumb…
these tears are libations;
rituals to lands of primordial ancestry
slavering to the new tastes of supple flesh.
A scythe came to the harvest of
endless litanies…
But something stays blissful in my hand
Like the rumours of rain,
This thing is life. Remember,
Brotherman, remember.
Jesuloba
