She’s born and
bound in these pages
The messiah of
hallowed ages
For she sees through
the hypocrisy preached by their sages
Standing in a void
she provokes-
A snake and
serpent enrages
And she sees
mirrors on turn-styles
And echoes of
teenage death howls
In subterranean
deluges
And penitence of
water wasted
A death known - we
faced it
Without fear or
agony or grief
An Indian boy, red
Indian chief
He is slain by the
man of pale skin
Alludes to
primordial choice – Eve’s sin
But echoes of time
and space
A divine Arian
race which we chase
And alone we are chastised
We fall to
disgrace
A cataclysmic
consolation
In the bedroom of
synthetic elation
Changes to bombs
and missiles of war
Like mental
military masturbation
For it seems to allude to me
And it remains to
be
Everything we
learn and dream
And echoes of the
stitches seam
For a man lost his
life
But it’s not as
important
As the team
For they berate,
yes they berate they hate
Never do they
realize how they propagate
The inadequacies
of a nation
A demon they
create
And in the doorway
I stand and weep
A child deprived
of sleep
But a man addicted
to the feeling of love
And yet the plough
of sanctity does not reap
No, that plough
does not reap.
This poem is featured in a recorded jam session at https://soundcloud.com/gianlucatruda/i-grew-a-beard
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