ON A COAL OF FIRE

On this coal of fire I sit, Patiently, like a hen on a line, Musing about this socio-malady That makes a man bleat Instead of facing his clarion call. And I see a constellation of heads Running like a lunatic chasing the wind, All after a sceptre meant for one, Desired by selected few but many, Yet within a filthy holy coventary.

"Have you forgotten the message: Many are called; few are chosen?" A call that rings bells within me, Constantly reminds of the mission. Until a garment is cast off, No nakedness can be uncovered! This I reason within with much care, To conclude that even in the sanctuary Lie the stricken stinking saints That nail Christ again for a coin!

Now I've seen the nudity of my ancestors. I've bathed in their pool of regrets, Gnashing to anger in fury. I soaked my pride; it floated abroad, Only to sell my tears for the joy of others. This home we built together from scratch, But the occupants tend to know better. Though our tongues and missions differ, Yet we claim in one accord we are. With time, I know, we will be free from self-slavery.