Crying in Hiccoughs

The Eden of the Fallen Deacon

31 The Eden of the Fallen Deacon This cursed Eden of rusty scaffolds, Eden devoid of reminiscence, Eden where Adam is not interred, This Eden of the fallen Deacon. A replica of the fallen Deacon, Sown rock sprouts nor rots not, Though rolling, there’s no moss, But glittering shine, the sign of death. We pout in want but keep our peace, And look upon Lapiro to ferment a change, He sings in Greek, the language of the dead, And that, even keen ears don’t hear. We watch the orphans shrivel in want, The farmers abandon their laden farms, The worms wriggle in poisoned mash, This cursed land of the fallen Deacon. Human Nature I saw a Minister in prayer, On bent knees supplicating, Repentant for budgets denuded, Or an Oliver Twist wanting more? So, I too on bent knees fell, More concerned but less tensed, “O Lord, I hail Thy word, ‘The First shall the last be,’ “Look then upon the line, ...