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Christmas 2017

Submitted by Bells_On_Sunday in Poetry

At the Clock Tower bathed
in sparkling consumption
shambling Krsna devotees
are today’s army of salvation.
Dusk softens the air and my sadness;
even those with nowhere
to go belong.
Bland mooncalf faces reflect
the year’s reward:
Huxley’s foresight outsees Orwell
or, let’s say,
a pill for the masses
a boot for the few.

In this age of the grandchildren
we expose our necks in erotic reverie
at a refined distance from ancestors
and their robust struggles with days —
a hard life if you didn’t weaken.

Of the elders’ mission to purify reality,
nostalgic gruel remains.
The meaning of their life was its peril,
the seed that rots in the good black earth
to return to daylight transfigured.
We children of empty blessing
take courage, take hold of our hearts.

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