After forty decades of wandering Western brush-heaps,
The viper, the thief, the beating sun,
Dancing like the Dionysian cults who 'really felt the moving Spirit,'
And the blank adobe huts
Left bringing in the husks of sheaves
Left arms left shriveled in shivering sleeves
-Starvation visits.
The bread we left at Zion is wearing on our guts,
And we, wearing our pangs on our sleeves,
Grope for thorns or nails for sins to the crosses
To resurrect the Saviour, to birth Him in our hallowed halls,
To incarnate Ba'al.
So after this, our exile, show
Unto us the fruit of Thee, Womb.
For we have no bread in these huts
(There where there are no mothers, no tables, no cups)
And, gnawing, return to earth's womb.
O injured, O violated, O sweet
Mother Earth:
Pray for us, Mother of gods,
For we erect Thy May-pole in the Quad.
-Rick
