Fall on your knees in awe of God’s grandeur,
then take six, seven, even eight steps back.
Lightening apparently can and will strike twice...
Each landscape is a drenched-with-rain symphony,
Only the land isn’t land...
Nor the rain really rain...
Up to their necks in searing snow,
my sheep pay homage with throaty bleating…
A blind eye turned to the silvery fate of an insomniac’s nightmare...
Prayers of deep confession are now turned
into mere sing-song chants uttered by whorish little girls...
Rosary beads wrapped around necks in half-hearted suicide...
My eyes are turned heavenward,
watching the break of yet another monotonous dawn... |
|
