When the children come, they come bearing stones and sticks.
I say to them, “where is the twine which to tie them together?”
They continue, barefoot along the uncultivated grass.
They hadn’t understood me.
They are only children.
And the world is too simple, too sweet,
For the formation of knots.
Positioned alee the iron gate, they arch each stone and stick at the other’s crown.
“Harm not your brother! Lest you spend eternity seeking that sacred
Salvation which cannot be found!”
They hadn’t heard me.
They are only human.
Now they lie on that ancient road
From which I have long travelled.
My feet bleed, blister. There is no hide along my brittle boot.
I search for them, they are lost. Only mad men slump in place.
Beneath Earth’s dust stained red,
Irises battle to see God.
Mounting toward the smoking heavens,
A view bombarded.
And my shako chord falls
Along the apple of my eye.
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