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14 The Evil Man He traded his soul for a bag of fake gold Glittering in effervescent light Blind eyes saw not its fakeness Unclean racing hearts yielded to its allurement Pontius Pilate hung Humanity on the cross Dead as though at the alter of pontification Her drips of red wet mother earth Dry like the Sahara Desert God has withheld Her tears Scraggy men wobble like scarecrow amid a drift Haggard women sloth around like slobs With eyes open, empty, vacant, and distant Scrawny muted children look on questioningly: Why has God withheld Her tears? No answer. No food. No nourishment. Nothing Just the scorching eyes of Nature’s wrath Punishing the innocent While Pontius Pilate placates his hunger On his fake gold. ...

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