Desert-starved mouths thirst for The sounds of wordless hymns sung, Dying on stale air, Crashing on walls of sandstone silence That reverberate into wordless, then Screaming glossolalic rhythms Fed by drought-wrought sermons, Carrying a promise of water.
‘O ye whited sepulchre, Whose Rosary a mere adornment – A jewel, and not for prayer, You cling to for frigid warmth. Far more suited are ye To dine at Pilate’s table Than utter Jesus’ name And bear unto him Pyrite, Not Gold, at that holy stable. You here, stand witness – The pious fraud Sing hymns and prayers within While your sins abound abroad. And ever cherry-pick your apples, Rather than sit for long and read, And understand the sacred words, Rather than your own thoughts heed.