"baptised" poems
I wish you detox from drunken heights,
I’m jesus for today until my current shift ends
and the next one begins, after many nights,
in the garden centre of fallen south coast eden.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
People’s faces glitter as I go by,
memories of sinless youth,
for my hands blind with nostalgia,
that my being resurrects.
The child Lazarus scurries past my side,
to his home with his future in his hands,
in my hands, cupped wide.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I can love the unfortunate,
for my fortune is golden.
Delivered in letters
from North, West, East.
My trinity circle who join me at my supper,
breaking the garlic bread and sipping the borello,
to top crab ravioli baptised in the stream of sauce.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
The gates of heaven are open,
unblocked by the deaths of Keats, Shelley and Williams,
their souls not blocking the exit with an Underground Queue.
I give my blessings to
Livingstone and Charles Gordon
The one native he changed and the others’ sacrifice at Khartoum
Gained me my crown to modestly flaunt.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I float down the hall, to His Mighty Voice,
as my gold becomes a donation on the alter,
to gain the choral hymns of Mercury gilded rock gods
that will brighten my days
for now,
oh glorious moments.
Amen.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
by Desmond Makatu,
Your visits are unpredictable.
like a ghost, you're invisible.
The attacks are inevitable.
You come like a thief at night.
You seize me day and night.
"Epilepsy: an inevitable thief"
Cruelty unrestricted to age.
Victimising even toddlers.
Unrestricted to ethnic groups.
My life has time gaps.
Gaps, like discrete graphs.
Cracks depict thin line between life and death.
Grace bridges the gaps and life prevails over death.
Seizures still haunt me like a demonic wrath.
"Epilepsy: an inevitable thief"
Attacks are brief, bruises lasts forever.
You offer questions only God can answer.
Quest for answers is like probing for cure of Cancer.
Death seemed to be the answer but God thought otherwise.
First seizure shook like multiple earthquakes.
Followed by a pool of darkness.
woke up confused, crowd's ****** expressions said a thousand words.
Migraines raided my head, exposed to enormous pressure.
Officially baptised by wrath of seizures.
"Epilepsy: an inevitable thief"
You're a physical and psychological culprit.
Like a Yoyo, you take me into a roller-coaster of emotions.
Aftermaths of your theft are etched in my mind as if they’re on stones.
Behind my “poker face” lies devastating pains than physicals seen by the crowd.
"Epilepsy: an inevitable thief"
Watch video on YouTube. https://youtu.be/VggXerYLOHY
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
The Miner, Absolom
(a haibun)
green hill where sheep graze
white bones and coal, buried, held
seasons all the same
My grandfather worked in the mines from age thirteen to seventy. His life was closed in by mountains, the green one at the back, the dark looming one at the front and the pit head along the valley., winding the men in and out of the shaft, day after day, dawn until dusk when they came home singing
boots ring on the road
deep valley voices echo
backyard starlit smoke
.
They worked on their bellies or crouched, often in water for days, water that undermines rock. Shaft collapses where frequent. Life was cheap. He came home covered in coal dust to his wife and two sons, sons he was determined to keep out of the mines. Yet he loved that coal - coal that he always polished with care before lighting a fire, brushing dust off black diamond surfaces.
water breaks through rock
with wood and straining shoulders
man becomes the beam
He saved twenty lives that day, men he had known from boyhood. When his lungs were affected they laid him off, no pay, no pension, no life. He bought an insurance book with the money he had and every day he trudged over the mountains and valleys gathering pennies that would help to secure some livelihood to the widows who lost their men in the mines. He never told his wife that when a family couldn't pay he put the pennies in for them rather than leave them unprotected.
winter, summer, fall
the mountain hangs over all
tired to the backbone
When the mines were nationalised my grandfather went straight back to the coal face despite his age. He wasn't going to miss those days of glory. Safety was suddenly the watchword and changes were made very fast. Hot showers were installed at the pit head and the miners came home clean at last.
men stripped to the skin
hot water, steam, baptised
brothers singing hymns
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
I miss you like sadness.
I used to wrap around myself like some lovelorn python
with a desire for suicide blondes.
Called yourself a wrecking ball, but you had no choice.
Maybe you wanted to caress my house softly without destruction.
Maybe you cried afterwards like a lost child on a mountain of doubt.
Full of maybes! You make me full of maybes!
I was taught as a child that maybe was just a watered down no.
Stop watering the truth down, I'm not your flower.
I'm a ****
And I'll just continue to grow until I can't fit in anything except for my own grave.
You make me want to go to church.
I was baptised once, I forget as what.
I honestly don't even know what religion is,
but I can religiously blacken my lungs with nicotine and lies.
Lie with me.
Caress my sins.
My body is world war three,
I have nuclear bombs in the dips of my collarbones
and every single freckle you used to compare to the galaxies
are bullet holes.
Save your prose for someone who gives a ****
Pull the blinds baby, we don't need light in here.
Did you know that with three minutes of asphyxiation you become brain dead?
Let's try it baby, suicide pact?
Let's dance with the dead darling.
You always said the devil was our best friend.
My tarot cards turned black when you turned them over.
You said that I was hard to read.
I had trouble reading anything except the bell jar.
And now it's my turn to ring it.
You're prettier with a necklace made of fingers.
I want to collect your energy in a mason jar and sell it at a garage sale.
I want to smash it in the middle of a highway and lay in a ditch until the wolves eat my body.
I want to be lost.
Lose me baby.
I'll lose myself in your lies.
Lie with me.
I just want to be held.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
In the solace of his pillow,
In the darkness of the pillows case,
Seeps the dew of all -- and everything --
He'd sooner left unsaid.
He lays the damp side on it's back --
Baptised, and cleansed in stormy tears;
He finds the strength to raise his head,
And pretend theirs nothing else to fear.
But a storm is brewing up ahead...
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
from a point of ignorance, or perhaps from
a point of common sense...
listening to
jan lamprecht talking
about apartheid in south africa, and how,
apparently, the idea was to create
a poly-state solution, or what would
have been a federation, akin to u.s.a.,
now, i already said, from the point of
ignorance, or perhaps from a common sense...
let's not read too much at this point
for the sake of argument...
if that was really going to happen?
that there were white states, and there were
black states,
but somehow, they managed to work
together...
i'm looking at the map of south africa
right now...
now...
in europe, you have countries
that are land-locked, and we just call them that...
but i'm looking at the map...
and the apartheid beginnings, which
would rather seem obvious to the eye...
wouldn't apartheid have been stalled
once lesotho & suazi emerged?
surely these areas weren't the spartan 300
akin and never being colonised...
it's a "poem", it's not a history book,
i don't feel like i need to be right
or wrong, or need to constantly rely
on precision of facts to write, constantly making
references...
i'm working from: word of mouth,
from someone who was there...
but i can't really imagine either lesotho
or suazi being so ****** resistent to british
rule...
to me, they were the beginning results
of the apartheid project to create
the s.a.f. the south african federation,
federation meaning: there's already a whole,
now we need to cut it up, but retain the original
whole...
united states?
how would you establish
that, if not through a civil war?
it's still a federation,
the f.s.a. ha ha, imagine the chants...
f.s.a.! f.s.a.! no ring to it without
there's a federal bank, right?
federal this that and, of course,
x-files & federal bureau of investivgation.
like i already said, i'm not going to look
into the origins of lesotho & suazi,
as other than from the project apartheid...
and i'll only cite one realiable source:
jan lamprecht...
it's the tongue on the ground (boots too),
and if he doesn't know what he's talking,
how can some historian, in a stuffy library in
england tell me what is and what isn't true?
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
And he saw it now and then
the lamp lit row of houses that
stretched beyond the eye
houses where men who dug black
slept and drank when they could
ageless cobbles pried on
men who fought in the street
over want, women and work
while little men sons played
foolish games of childhood
daughter women with prams
mothered their plastic dolls
and the wives gossiped about
young Sally who had a belly
by John Stout the butcher boy
the reverend Ellis knew
all the stories and chapters
of life in this coal dust street
he birthed them baptised them
married and buried them
and the street was quiet
no vehement voices tonight
as the deed of death
slipped over the cobbles
and gripped a sleeping soul.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Love has come Again
At a halt on our path
a field-scape lies.
The sky downcasts
a beige blankness
tucked into the horizon.
It is a scene, still of movement.
Then in an abrupt cloak of berries
the sudden plumage of a pheasant
erupts from its hedgerow covert,
a most vivid proclamation
of the season’s palette.
In these silent wolds winter’s wheat
has already sprung its green blade
from the buried grain . . .
only now to wait,
to wait in the cold earth
at our feet, to wait, then flower.
Love is Come Again the carol sings.
This is nature’s promise,
and yet hidden from sight
the story tells itself
again. And yet again
we pause and wonder
at its telling . . .
even as the light fails us
and a darkness falls
against this frigid land.
La Serenissima
There it was, high on an outer wall
of San Giovanni Battista in Bragora;
the church where Vivaldi was baptised.
Ruskin would surely have brought
suo scala a pioli to come close
and so sketch this tableau in relief
of Mary, her son and the Magi three.
But with il telebiettivo
its detail becomes forever mine,
and so is pinned during Advent
to my studio notice-board:
a ****** purissimo,
un bambino divine,
my Christmas gift
from La Serenissima.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Letter Of A Young Polish Nobleman,
Warsaw, 1759
There was a farce performed the other day
In the cathedral, where, as is my wont,
I'd gone to mass. While kneeling near the font,
I saw, when I had just begun to pray,
A mob of filthy Jews swarm up the aisle
To be baptised. The King himself was there
And even stood as sponsor to a pair
Of thick lips with a most unpleasant smile.
Back home, I asked my steward, Mendel Gryn,
What it had been about. "Pan Casimir,"
He said, "The man you saw was Yankev Frank,
Those were his followers: they claim that sin
Leads Man to God, but now, baptised, I hear
They've all been raised, by law, to noble rank."
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, having read Henri Bergson’s ‘’Creative Evolution’’, which won him the Noble Prize for Literature and is now considered a Classic, I was impressed by his words, ‘’Life does not end with death. It conquers death through reproduction……..and creative evolution.’’ Bergson’s book inspired me to compose this poem way back in 2008, and post it on ‘Poem Hunter.com’. Hope you like this short and simple poem. Thanks, - Raj.
THE CHURCH AND THE GRAVEYARD
The Graveyard lies silent behind the Church’s cool
shade,
As the shadow of the belfry tower falls over the
world of the dead.
Perhaps they are mysteriously compatible in certain
ways!
Through the front door of the Church we enter;
And with passage of time through the rear door
we exit and go,
Forever mingling with Life’s eternal flow.
In the Church marriages are solemnised.
New born babies are christened and baptised.
Hymns and sermons are heard on Sabbath Days,
People kneel down in silence to pray.
Some to repent and confess, -
To seek salvation and are blessed.
And when the older generation pass away,
In the graveyard behind the church they are
laid to rest.
Yet amidst death Life goes on .......
With peels of bells and chorus songs.
The world of the dead is surrounded by Life,
Our younger generations live and thrive.
For the epitaph cannot bury Life’s eternal song!
Green grass grows around the dead,
And trees showers flowers from overhead.
Bouquets of roses on cold marble slabs,
With fond memories a tear drop is shed,
In loss of the loved one, now in the world of
the dead!
While Life surges, swirls, and flows all around,
As the dead lie in their graves where silence
surrounds.
New Life sprouts, and memories slowly fade …….
The Graveyard lies in the Church’s cool shade!
-Raj Nandy.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
Fecklessly eremitical
Scholars of sorcery wizened
As a thousand dew drops
Sullenly fall like tears
From furtive circean eyes,
Gnarling pious pyrognomic malevolance
Within the nebulous netherworlds
Salamandrous sanctity
Summonsing the heliacally
Resurgant vaticide from
The pheonixs flames
Newly baptised;
Immutably the darkest
Light that ever shone
Upon halcyon times.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:26 AM UTC
My noise, or music
(I don’t know which is which)
But it tries to escape,
And is broadcast, nightly
Over flat roofs and chimneys
Along fog choked alleys,
Through city streets
Till caught in its own limit
It’s consumed, and strewn,
Over an iron bridge
Down to the river
To become another corpse.
————————————————————
It could be me,
Along with my dream,
Blown up in a river.
It could be me, face down
Listening to the city;
Trying to perceive
Through the noise
Of shuddering trains
And the bereft sirens,
Wailing for the lost.
It could be me
Trying to perceive
Underneath music
The underneath voice that says
'You have to drown to hear me,
You must be, baptised in silence'
————————————————————
I knew his father once (the Baptist’s)
And I believed in him
Like some comic-book hero,
I believed in his powers.
And now, in this city
I can only believe in ghosts
Ghosts found wandering
Among attendant chords
Carried at night
Across the city lights
Playing on a empty swing
Under afternoon sun
And in lingering mists of dawn
That pearl the ground.
I’ve felt that ghost
Near the wood at twilight
And in a foxes stare
And a strangers smile.
————————————————————
But feeling ain’t believing,
So Sunday mornings are spent
For better or worse,
In pursuits and hot-heeled chases,
Of spent thoughts and sorry dreams
That try to stem the tide
That try to forget the plea, to join the rats,
And to see the sea.
————————————————————
But, almost accidentally
I still always find music,
In a hush of wind, or in swirling leaves
As my head breaks through roaring waves.
Contemplation makes the music clearer
Revealing the divinity of expression.
Revealing the label-less ghost, with a comic-book name;
‘The Unseen Hand’ which plays
Throughout the night in days
And is heard when yearned for.
And it will not die, for it has never lived,
Apart from the mind.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Conceived
By the pleasure of the flesh and
By the the discharge of a dispersed fluid, a leech-like cloth was formed.
He was conceived in warmth void, delivered into a space betwixt paradise and hell in a night of oblivion, then baptised with all impurities of hell and paradise.
Impurities infringed from all baptism, the dominant one will determine the direction of his life...
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 4:34 PM UTC
Place one hand on my shoulder
and guide my head under
You welcomed me to the world
so let me drown at your fault
Smile at me faintly as the waves
ripple over my eyes and fill my lungs
Like a babe being baptised
you hold the back of my skull
Now, not to keep me from drowning
but to show me your gentle touch
As my body erupts in panic, I flail
I feel your love
And for the slights you caused
I feel your sorrow
But I am too far gone, no longer
needing your hands to keep me afloat
Or to hold me under
Sep 11, 2024
Sep 11, 2024 at 6:43 AM UTC
versailles has been waiting for your return
this time you will be reborn
out of bitter tears and infant screams
you have been baptised
and now the light of apollo will be in your eyes
the squinting girl will return
but now you are a lion-heart boy
and the twelve years that have passed for them
is twelve hundred for you!
versailles has been waiting
and you will go back
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
this is the treasure we seek:
wings out of tune with the world
& names to be swallowed like berries,
dark forest stains on the fingers.
oh to have forest stains on these fingers
this is the treasure we hold:
the forest has always been here.
~
and here, i was a weary wanderer
and my fire held no magic, we were no wild things, we watched
as the silence picked up our broken pieces to examine
while we could not break it in return,
wisdom in vain.
now, i keep a jar of ashes.
let me place it
gently next to your pillow, a touch and a whisper,
a gift for good dreams. i still remember
the should have been beauty and the beauty that was.
and now, sometimes,
i am a robin.
(as wild as the city lets anything be,
not fearing fences, not finding the open sky
but baptised by the moon between pines.)
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
Times behold when twisted men are captured by their spleen
When souls will writhe in torment though their thoughts are seldom seen,
When agitation rides aloft with blunt spur on its' ****
And the hounds of hell are baying as though purgatory will pass.
Torment in its' basest form is shaded beastly red
Immersing flocks of faithful in the mind set till they’re dead,
For shredded nails and worry lines, so deeply now ingrained,
Are signatured paralysis of the breed that has abstained.
Abstained in all things beautiful, such as dreams which flow in mirth,
Abstained from eyes of merriment and joyful leaps from earth,
Divorced to all that conjures up the gracious well of love
Divorced from thoughts of holiness in faith, both hand in glove.
Baptised to despondency, inured to sights and sounds
Which lift the mind's creation well beyond all earthly bounds,
Committed to the trench of the dark abyss of gloom
Assigned to unenlightenment...The soul has left the room.
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 4:26 AM UTC
I searched for God in the sounds of the seas
oscillating butterfly wings
clinging of communion wine glasses
page after page after page in libraries
children laughing
ghastly howls of tornadoes
calls of wild birds
I listened to the rumbling of my inner wars,
I did not hear Adonai's voice there
until I opened the Bible ...
I heard Job loudly grieving his colossal losses
Jonah's boat crushed in a sea creature's mouth
crusty sound of Lot turning into stone
Samson pulling pillars apart
Daniel whimpering among surrounding lion growls
cries of women and children killed
blood dripping from the sword that beheaded John
whiplash echoes, soldiers spitting on Jesus
the rooster's third cry.. then Peter's cry
coins rattling in Judas' pocket
Mary mourning her son's death
warm dry winds blowing in 40 years of desert wastelands
and then I heard
the burning bush and Moses taking off his sandals
roaring thunders turn into calm waters
David singing palms
clapping dove wings, ascending down on Jesus
waters and rejoicing of baptised folks
waving palm leaves and announces "Hosannah!"
the pounding feet of a lame man now leaping
breaking of bread at the feast of the Table
rolling away of the Jesus' tomb stone
and then I know what I will hear one day...
well done my good and faithful servant
until then...
be still and know that I am God
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Now when I call it the Village
well thats what
my mom calls it
but really its urban space
so today I walked around it
the first road
I came to has speed bumps
according to signs they are twined with towns in France
it called Hob Moat
and a moat it has
known to me as the woods
spent many happy hour riding up and down those hills
but the way it got built up
it's not a village
walk through the woods you get shops
which have change over time
there are two churches
one new bit like a carbuncle
a blot on the landscape built in the 60s
man they where so on drugs
what was in there heads
the other old
I got baptised there so did my brother
went to sunday school
they gave out stamps each time you attended
but within 20 mins you can walk
into countryside
but now I find that is changing to
MAN
why do we **** every thing up?
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
Shepard in a field,
crucified upon a wooden fence
Your grieving flock was scattered
worldly
Liberty's book was swiftly plunged into
the blood of bigotry
Fascism laughed in tones of red, white and blue
Land where our fathers died
Land where our bigots hide
I say to you Amen...
I love Jesus;
you must too
resounded these hollow
words
Hate is now the doctrine
intertwined morph-boiled into fear and hate,
being poured over enlightenment
in destruction of green lands
engulfing
youthful sprouts
in destructive steamy waters
The book of Leviticus
is the demise of reason
fractured from critical thinking;
allocated to the current pulped-swine,
swaying in hypnosis listeners of these pulpit-swine-beasts;
they embark with twisted trepidation's disdain
Shepard in other fields of life
into brute submissions
you will succumb being baptised
in your own red pools,
being smitten by the pulpit-swine-listners
of ancient prophets
The dirge, the slow dirge is heard
throughout our delicate land
Ooh sweet brilliant Oscar, we still suffer
as you had
my brilliant Irish lad
I love Jesus
you
must too
My country tis not for me
sweet land of bigotry
to thee I sing, to thee I sing...
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
Sweetly, swooning, he laid me down, adored my being into morning
Baptised in his sighs I bloomed under soft caresses
Sacred bird song echoed round the clock face and stars gazed upon us, smoldering
Lustrous shine glared white
there was a stirring in my spine
tender kisses within, without, our gods meditated on pleasure
Tears rolled lash to dimple in hushed prayer and with quiet thanks he received my offering
Our words too human, our bodies left behind
I was delivered
Eyes closed and breath steady goosebumps flowed over flesh, we consecrated this place
The rosette center of my labyrinth unfolded and thus I saw, he had been sleeping sound in my petals
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
Wipe my eyes, melting away the wax
of unrighteousness; to see into your grace,
and all it’s wisdom.
I’ve been blinded,— to not see the value of my
worth. In dusty mirrors, only seeing the worst.
A slave, a sinner, and being so undeserving of
your love.
Oh Father,—
_Boys will be boys,_ but not rarely are the
men baptised in wisdom. Washed of their
former selves.
Spirit filled,— isn’t of the religious talk your lips
could exclaim. But of what really resides inside;
of you and your relationship with God, alone.
Voices are many, only in the quietest moments
of heading into sin. But it’s but a whisper of what
true righteousness speaks of.
Know that it is Him,— the King of kings,
Lord of all, as Jesus is and remains the one
true King.
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 6:51 AM UTC
A swallow swoops for flitting flies
While Johnny rubs exhausted eyes
(As morning clasps the rising sun)
Confirming Captain’s day’s begun:
Slow streams emerge from melting snows -
The Merchant Ship’s in stark repose...
As Johnny frets with tingling tongue
A Vulture fleeces fields far-flung
(Beneath a bleeding sun above),
And Captain culls the dead with love:
Yes, while the silent water flows,
The Merchant Ship just gulps and grows...
A serpent weaves amongst the weeds
As Johnny dares audacious deeds
(When evening drains the dying day)
To stop the Captain, come what may:
And while the raging rivers grow
The Merchant Ship rocks to and fro...
An owl, a’ branch, has teacup eyes
That glimmer dark as Johnny dies
(Now sown inside the future’s womb)
When flushing Captain to his doom:
Trapped in titanic undertow
The Merchant Ship’s swept down below...
A fledgling bird sprays morning dew
As Johnny Junior’s born anew
(He’s baptised in the dawn ablaze)
To rectify the former days:
Raw rills arise from melting snow
And ****** rivers start to flow...
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
From prophecy to Calvary... Christ's journey was decreed,
From Bethlehem to Bethany... the Lord fulfilled Man's need...
Jerusalem was yet in store... the visitation set,
The time for people to adore... Palm Sunday still and yet...
Beyond that day, Christ faced His fate... Passover to prepare,
Last Supper Christ would celebrate... Gethsemane in prayer...
But then, for Jesus, no way out! The Cross of Calvary!
Despite His fear, despite His doubt! Christ died for you and me...
It's prophecy that led Him still... for He knew all flesh dies,
But He loved God! Obeyed His will... when promised He would rise!
So death was not the end for Christ... or that friend on the cross,
The Lamb of God was sacrificed... God led Him there because
Although we've sinned, our sins are waived! Today, we're Heaven bound!
We've been baptised! We're blessed! We're saved! And yet we're still around!
But there's a day in prophecy, the Rapture of the dead,
And then we, too... yes, you and me... up to our Lord are led!
Denis Martindale March 2018.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
With love and respect to a "National Hero" who gave his life
for future goodness. This coming National holiday January 16th 2017
his first name was Martin; let us begin...
And so you came and left Alabama
on words that blew sharply
piercing even the most covered ear
Great cities welcomed you
and some did not
Pride from a long struggle
subdued anger
bringing about a glimpse
of worldwide HOPE for everyone
and all the poor
Prophetic visions were shouted
in strength to all four corners of the globe
Yet a crucifixion was waiting
for you in the guise of a missile
And too early a wheat was razed,
and the loaf became bitter
Your body was passed from mind to mind
as we ate of your bitter loaf
And so the dirge-drums were struck
And so the cadence bowed
And so the tears were shed
And so a brother in spirit was dead
All colors mixed in unison-
And out from that dark cloud appeared a rainbow
And rain tear-cheeks dried
And a resurrection of pride
soon flooded the country-
We all became baptised
in blood and truth...
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC