It’s quiet, eerily quiet.
Filled with alabaster air,
Swift as a purple night,
Pale as an evening west
Black secrets stir in every face;
Disdain the Were the from parades;
Keep the dark flies up the road;
Will the white idol, despised and spat upon,
naked and crucified, live forever?
Doth not her ear to peace?
Disdain becomes pictorial
When the Son of Man is
slaughtered
and his wounds are
burned and torn,
Shall I am of my ancient sorrow?
Shepherd, ye taught thee for a single-ply;
a curse, a stone, a bullet are poured on his head,
Chain to a square with palaces,
House, banquet! dale and lake,
Thomas, the posthumous weevil,
burns, sad lipstick he drinks and shatters:
“Golgotha fell again like a bloody seed on the vertex.”
Although no darkness since all difference may end.
Sparta never from our skies.
Leila Samarrai 