En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Too Concerned with Self

People are too concerned
with self, said Father Higgs.
His aged face as if hewn from
Rock, sat before you on broad

shoulders, the lips labouring
with the words. Too much
worried how self will feel,
how self will benefit. He

hunched forward, his large
eyes moving over you like
tired slugs. The symbol of
the cross, he said with a

movement of his head, is to
cut through the I, the sign
of the self. You noticed one
high brow, grey, larger than

the other, hair in nose like
insects in hiding. He breathed
out deeply. Self denial is
the essence of the message

of Christ, he said, a left
inclination of his head, his
teeth (not his own) large
and discoloured. You wanted

to ask questions, but he raised
a hand. The word I is stated
too often in conversations,
he said, or self too much

brought in as myself or herself
or himself or such as may be
used in talk. You understood
this was his way of lecturing.

His black monastic habit was
stained about the neck by food
or dribble or dried up phlegm.
We ought to be concerned with

others, he stated, wheezing, face
reddening, eyes enlarging. Where
is my inhaler? he wheezed, I really
must be off, this smoker's cough,

my poor old lungs, must get myself
a stronger inhaler and he was off,
out of the common room he had
caught you in some hour back.

All you saw was his hand and inhaler
and departing monastic habit of black.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Strand

I saw my father’s face last week,
across the gulf of time..
I chanced upon a photograph
That you had left behind.

His hair shock white, his shoulders large
from years of heavy toil,
His eyes pale blue, his hands were rough
from working with the soil.

I thought I saw his face again
Across a crowded room
It must have been a trick of light-
a product of my gloom.

I saw my father’s face last night-
within a vivid dream.
We walked familiar streets of home
in forty year old scenes.

Long vanished homes and people
paraded through my head.
I did not choose to break the mood
or remind him he was dead.

I took my father’s hand last night
We walked a moon lit shore.
The beach’s sand was coarse and black
the surf a subdued roar.

The land behind was all I know,
But the Ocean beckoned me
So together, hand in hand,
We stepped into the sea.

*** *** *** ***

*• a poetic term for a shore (as the area periodically covered and uncovered by the tides)

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Outside331’sSleep

Don’t open your eyes yet not until I explain last night I went to bed with Sleep last night I fell for Sleep last night Sleep unclothed me left me naked in a room painted black I couldn’t see Sleep because Sleep was dark too and the room was black and the foreground blended in with the background I couldn’t tell what was far and what was close I became frustrated because Sleep was either hiding inside the room or the room was hiding behind Sleep neither were being fair to my eyes who wanted to play hide and go Sleep I hide inside the room and Sleep seeks I said where are you Sleep I can’t see you my eyes can’t find you Sleep I said I wanted to fall inside you brought me into this black room and I am trying to wrap myself around you won’t you come inside of me you won’t stage scenes in my eyes created with color everything is black one long stretch Sleep are you moving and I can’t see you or are you standing still and I can’t feel you are here Sleep you are silent Sleep I feel alone Sleep I want you to be inside me if you take me to a black room and make me go to bed are your eyes open I can’t see you did you leave is Sleep here Sleep am I inside you explain Sleep explain did you open your eyes Sleep are my eyes open Sleep are you outside me Sleep you took me to bed and left me Sleep I can’t open my eyes until you are back inside me I can’t see Sleep when you’re not inside me open your eyes Sleep do you see me inside you explain last night am I still inside Sleep?

(12-13-07)

poem by Chelsea Trescott
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Maundy Thursday and Later.

Maundy Thursday. The church
Was packed. Full of incense.
Miss Dogberry sat at the back.
Mudrift watched her. He studied her.
The way her hair hung black and long.
Her broad bridged nose. Sat next to her.
She unaware. Priest proceeded with
The service. Miss Dogberry smelt Mudrift’s
Scent passions were stirred. She sniffed
Heavy her nose breathed deep. A bell
Was tolled. Candles were lit. Mudrift felt
Love or was it lust? Moved closer his thigh
Touched her thigh. Priest’s hands were
Raised host lifted high the Crucified the
Bloodied lamb. Miss Dogberry whispered
Softly do you sense it? Mudrift nodded
His loins stiffened. The last supper the Judas
Gone the Magdalene followed him out.
My place or yours? Mudrift muttered.
Mother’s at home Dogberry said no privacy.
Mudrift took her his hand in hers. I live alone
Mudrift muttered no disturbance. His room
Was warm smelt of old smoke and beds unmade.
He offered drinks and put on jazz with lights
Turned low. She undressed slow hand holding
Out each small item. Mudrift watched her
The nakedness revealed the plump body
The broad bridged nose the soft flesh lips
The melon breasts. Is that Stan Getz?
She asked Mudrift that baritone’s his
Saxophone. Mudrift nodded his mind on
Sex not saxophones or soft jazz tones.
He kissed her lips his arms embraced her
Ample flesh. She didn’t mind his lack of hair
On balding head or bearded face rubbing
Her chin. She wanted sex and saxophones
And him within. Maundy Thursday.
The Crucified above the bed upon a cross
Nailed hands out wide eyes looking down
Head to one side. Mudrift made love the
Magdalene Miss Dogberry gazed up above.

poem by Terry Collett
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Not For Me

Not for me she said
I don’t want to end up
like my mother
I want to reach out

and touch real life
and not end up
some man’s wife
and be endlessly

at his beck and call
and she sat
by the pond
looking over

to the other side
where the woods were dense
and reached out
and touched your hand

and you wondered
if there were still fish
in the pond
and if when

you brought your rod
the following day
you’d catch any
and you liked the way

the sunlight caught
the pond’s skin
and she said
I want to feel

being alive
feel the electric of life
run through my veins
and she leaned over

and kissed you
and placed her hand
between your thighs
and touched the hardness

of your crotch
and you said
do you know how big
the fish was

that got away
when I fished here last?

And she said
no but I know how big
the one I’ve caught is
and laughed

and released her hand
and gave you one
of her stares with her
large passionate eyes

and you noticed
a lone big bird in black
moving across
the bright blue skies.

poem by Terry Collett
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DYSPNOEA (short story)

"He's choking" I cried
looking at that sixty plus old man in a dhothi and a tattered wet shirt.
"Dyspnoea! " commented my friend Rajan
staring at him.
"What's dyspnoea? " I yelled.

The rain-lashed black-top road
was looking like a crawling snake..
That desolate bus-shelter beside
that village road was damp and leaking.
The old man settled on the cement bench
was panting, coughing and staring into the skies as if he's waiting to see the angels from heaven or agents of the Hades.
His wife was pressing his back and telling..."Wait...the rain will abate soon...it won't take much time."

I cried at her, "Give him his inhaler! "
"What's inhaler? " she asked.
"I mean inhaler; O' God! " I cried.
"How do they know about inhaler? " Rajan said coolly.
Ignoring my friend, I cried again,
"Don't you have any medicine ready...
Something like deriphyllin or salbutamol? "
I didn't wait for her reply...rushed into the rain and reached the street corner and asked a passer-by, "Where's the medical shop here? ", "No medical shop here...in fact up to a distance of 20 kms" he replied. "No medical shop? ! ! " stunned I shouted aloud.
He added, "That old couple live in a small hut. Even a small rain is enough to make them run. They come to this bus-shelter and remain till the rain abates...it's usual for them...don't worry...once the rain abates they go back to their hut"
Returned to the bus-shelter and cried at her
"Take him to the town by next bus...his condition is serious. We're riding on a motor bike. It's too risky to drive him town"

We returned to town, but remained my heart guilty.
"I could have done better than leaving that old man like that"
I thought.
Next morn, Rajan called over phone, "Read today's news...that old man died"

(In India there are hundreds of villages where no medical shop is available. This poem is based on a true incident. Rajan is a real name of my friend who is a newspaper correspondent.)

poem by Sathya Narayana
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Cloud Formations and Jane..

I like cloud formations
Jane said
laying on her back

in the small church yard
looking up at the sky
above her head

it's like a form of art
you said
grey and white

against a canvas of blue
that looks like a man's head
Jane said

the way it forms
and unforms
you followed

the pointing
of her finger at the sky
that looks like a dog

over there
you said
she looked

and then gazed at you
her blue eyes
catching the sun's light

through a tree above
I like these moments alone
with you

she said
no one near us
no disturbance

no sounds save for birdsong
and the buzz of bees
you moved closer to her

and lay with you right hand
supporting your head
searching her eyes

her dark hair
about her face
daddy said

that Heaven is above us
and looking
at the cloud formations

I feel I see it
especially when the sun
shines through

she said
her lips moving
with slow motion

I think that sometimes
you said
she leaned nearer to you

and kissed your lips
then lay back
and stared at the clouds

and sky
and you lay back too
thinking inwardly

this is where
I'd like to lie
the day I die.

poem by Terry Collett
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Infringement of the Rules

Any infringement of the rules
Or minor sin puts her head in
A spin, puts her soul just over
The edge, lingering there in mid
Air waiting for some dark demon
To snatch. Sister Angela rubs sins
From the black beads, utters long
Prayers from the tongue. She firmly
Wrestles with her demons in the bed,
In the cloisters, out there in the dark
Corners of the world, inside her head.
Her father used to say, your demons
Know you better than you do yourself;
They know your pitfalls, your small
Faults, your tiny imperfections that
Cling to your soul like dark bruises on
Fruit. Then he’d beat her black and blue
And leave her in her room to brood and
Suck in the emptiness of thick dark space.
She kisses the black beads as once she
Kissed that Boyle boy behind the bike
Sheds there, not from lust or love, but
For an unholy dare. The knees ache;
The back is stiff, the incense fills her nose
And head. Pray for us now, she mutters,
Her black serge habit tight about her form,
Pushing out her breath, and at the hour of
Our death. Her father lingers in his cancer
Bed; her mother rots in her grave where her
Father drove her with his drunken words
And fisted hands on frail skin. Sister Angela
Washes with her fierce scrubs any small
Infringements of the rules or minor sin,
Hearing her father’s words harsh within.

poem by Terry Collett
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If you don't look like the ruling class, bring your inhaler.

quote by Esai Morales
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Motherhood

She sat on a shelf,
her breasts two bellies
on her poked-out belly,
on which the navel looked
like a sucked-in mouth—
her knees bent and apart,
her long left arm raised,
with the large hand knuckled
to a bar in the ceiling—
her right hand clamping
the skinny infant to her chest—
its round, pale, new,
soft muzzle hunting
in the brown hair for a nipple,
its splayed, tiny hand picking
at her naked, dirty ear.
Twisting its little neck,
with tortured, ecstatic eyes
the size of lentils, it looked
into her severe, close-set,
solemn eyes, that beneath bald
eyelids glared—dull lights
in sockets of leather.

She twitched some chin-hairs,
with pain or pleasure,
as the baby-mouth found and
yanked at her nipple;
its pink-nailed, jointless
fingers, wandering her face,
tangled in the tufts
of her cliffy brows.
She brought her big
hand down from the bar
with pretended exasperation
unfastened the little hand,
and locked it within her palm—
while her right hand
with snag-nailed forefinger
and short, sharp thumb, raked
the new orange hair
of the infant’s skinny flank—
and found a louse,
which she lipped, and
thoughtfully crisped
between broad teeth.
She wrinkled appreciative
nostrils which, without a nose,
stood open—damp holes
above the poke of her mouth.

She licked her lips, flicked
her leather eyelids—
then, suddenly flung
up both arms and grabbed
the bars overhead.
The baby‘s scrabbly fingers
instantly caught the hair—
as if there were metal rings there—
in her long, stretched armpits.
And, as she stately swung,
and then proudly, more swiftly
slung herself from corner
to corner of her cell—
arms longer than her round
body, short knees bent—
her little wild-haired,
poke-mouthed infant hung,
like some sort of trophy,
or decoration, or shaggy medal—
shaped like herself—but new,
clean, soft and shining
on her chest.

poem by May Swenson
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Over His Latte.

He's only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter

waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress

serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at

the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,

but it doesn't come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows

her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.

She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over

the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother

would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman's coffee; he notes the

waitress's fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman

in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,

as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he's not;
he's away with that girl from the office,

having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before sex. She looks boringly

away. He sips more latte. He doesn't like
her white hat or black dress anyway.

poem by Terry Collett
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If roses

If rose is symbol of love
I do hold the views and believe
It you say it is crimson red
I certainly follow you to be led

Surely then hatred may have color too
What all stages may have to pass through?
It must be painted black
Humanity is large sufferer and at stake

Love is colorless
But reflects on face
Its centre is at heart
Its origination with art

How can all the three go together?
Some has to opt out from there
Love and hate together is surely impossible
If that is so then clearly inviting troubles

Eyes speak and heart bleeds
When something wrong comes as feed
How come person become blood thirsty?
When concerned by world with humanity

If love is shined with red
Then it has world’s highest grade
What all can we bar and forbid?
Anger, hatred, jealousy and greed

Nights can be dark and frightening
But with days break it can be lightening
Love can be simple note that can be heartening
Everybody to gain without any kind of threatening

Let us celebrate day with wishes and flowers
Let there be no awakening or large followers
Make it point to greet a person with hello or smile
Observe the change when you cross the people for a while

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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What Others May Think.

Apart from the water tower
and the farm

and a few scattered cottages
there were no other buildings

for a mile or more
just you and Jane

and birds in the early morning sky
I like it at this time of day

she said
I like the fresh smell of nature

and the farm
and having few people about

you walked beside her down the lane
that led away from the farm

you noticed how her black hair
seemed freshly washed

and blew slightly in the mild wind
does you father mind

you being out with me?
you asked softly

he doesn't know
she replied

he thinks I came out alone
for a morning walk

why didn't you tell him?
you asked

he was busy writing his Sunday sermon
and it was easier to just go out

and not disturb him
she said looking around at you

her eyes studying you
as she walked on down the lane

would he mind you being with me?
you asked

I don't think he knows you as yet
seeing as you have only moved here

a few months and don't come
to the church

you stopped and took her hand in yours
it was warm and soft

and pulsed with life
she looked at your hand

holding hers and she rubbed
her thumb over the back

of your hand
you wanted to kiss her lips

or cheek just to feel
her flesh on yours

but you didn't you just looked at her
and waited to see

what she would do next
she let go of your hand

and looked around her
there might be people looking

from those cottages up there
she said suddenly pointing up

at the rising bank which went up
to two cottages high up

if they see us they may tell Father
and then it would be awkward

and he might suspect things
and then she went quiet

and looked at the running stream
by the lane

but we haven't done anything
we just walk out and talk

and hold hands now and then
it's not what we do

it's what others think we do
she said softly

and stood looking at you
waiting for you to speak

but you said nothing
just leaned in close to her

and kissed her cheek
and said

even Christ permitted kisses
even the one from Judas

and she smiled
and the early morning sun

pushed through trees
and shone on her hair

and there was the sound of birds
singing in the air.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Swagman

Oh, he was old and he was spare;
His bushy whiskers and his hair
Were all fussed up and very grey
He said he'd come a long, long way
And had a long, long way to go.
Each boot was broken at the toe,
And he'd a swag upon his back.
His billy-can, as black as black,
Was just the thing for making tea
At picnics, so it seemed to me.

'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread,
He told me. Then he shook his head,
And all the little corks that hung
Around his hat-brim danced and swung
And bobbed about his face; and when
I laughed he made them dance again.
He said they were for keeping flies -
"The pesky varmints" - from his eyes.
He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see
The best days of your life," said he.
"But days will come to bend your back,
And, when they come, keep off the track.
Keep off, young codger, if you can.
He seemed a funny sort of man.

He told me that he wanted work,
But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke,
And he supposed he'd have to go
Another fifty mile or so.
"Nigh all my life the track I've walked,"
He said. I liked the way he talked.
And oh, the places he had seen!
I don't know where he had not been -
On every road, in every town,
All through the country, up and down.
"Young codger, shun the track," he said.
And put his hand upon my head.
I noticed, then, that his old eyes
Were very blue and very wise.
"Ay, once I was a little lad,"
He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.

I sometimes think: When I'm a man,
I'll get a good black billy-can
And hang some corks around my hat,
And lead a jolly life like that.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Change Of Habit

(words & music by b. kaye - b. weisman)
If youre in old habits
Set in your old ways
Changes are a-comin
For these are changing days
And if your head is in the sand
While things are goin on
What you need, what you need,
What you need is a change of habit
Now if youre in the habit
To let your temper fly
When you talk with people
Who dont see eye to eye
And if you dont believe it
Theres a newer world ahead
What you need, what you need,
What you need is a change of habit
A change of habit, a change of outlook
A change of heart, youll be all right
The halls of darkness
Have doors that open
Its never too late
To see the light
So if youre in the habit
Of putting people down
Just because theyre different
From the wrong side of town
Well, dont count on any medals son
Theyre pinning none on you
What you need, what you need,
What you need is a change of habit

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For the Meeting of Hearts and Lips

Julie took
one of the cigarettes
out of the packet
you had bought

and said
you're too kind
and lit it
with a small

plastic lighter
she took from her bag
you both sat
in a side room

set aside
for patients and guests
just off the drug
dependency ward

she was in
there was a scene
of a few trees
and bushes

from the window
marred by the sight
of the other part
of the hospital

over the way
glad you could come
she said
my parents

won't visit me here
don't they love you?
you asked
it's a matter of what

the neighbours might say
if they found out
I was here
she answered

inhaling deeply
and looking at you
with her dark eyes
her dark hair

was pulled back
in an untidy bun
and the hospital
dressing gown

she wore
was stained
and open
at the neck

and down
revealing a small cleavage
of young pinkish flesh
why did you come?

she asked
I wanted to see you
you replied
none of the others

from the Church come
she said
it's all talk
and promises

and God talk
but none
have come to see me
so far

she inhaled again
and stared out
the window
you studied how

she had crossed
her legs
showing
a glimpse of thigh

where her white
dressing gown
and nightdress
rose high

a nurse entered the room
and said
would you like tea
or coffee?

yes
Julie said
two coffees please
and the nurse

went out and off
her feet pitter
pattering down
the corridor

through the half
open door
I'm lucky here
she said

some druggies
get shoved in mental wards
or poked in
psychiatric units

with other
damaged goods
it seems ok
you replied

lifting your eyes
from her thighs
to her face
pure in its makeup

less state
and dark eyes
19 years young
she said

and already buggered up
as my father has said
I'm sure they love you
in their way

you said
taking in her neck
and the run
of her chin

and her mouth
with the small
moving lips
the nurse came in

with a tray
with two mugs
of white coffee
and a bowl

of brown sugar
and set it down
on the small grey table
and walked out

my parents love me
as property
not as a person
she said

uncrossing
her legs
and lifting a mug
and taking small sips

and oh you thought
(lifting a mug
and drinking)
for the meeting

of our hearts
and lips.

poem by Terry Collett
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After School Walk

After lessons at junior school
coming down the bricks stairs

Helen said
can I walk home with you?

Sure
you replied

and she set off with you
along St George's Road

the traffic and smoke fumes
setting the scene

she in her school frock
and cardigan

and white ankle socks
beside you in your grey jacket

and grey short trousers
and she said

I don't usually walk home alone
but mum said I can walk home

with you save her coming along
to the school with the other kids

and pram with baby
you took in

her two plaits of hair
and thin framed glasses

with large lens
which made her eyes

larger than they were
her small hands

by her side
a small school bag

over her shoulder
and did you know

Janice likes you?
Her grandmother

told my mother
the other day

after school
but I like you better

do you like me?
she asked

you noticed
she had small white teeth

with a thin brace
along the top

sure I do
you replied

I like Janice too
but you I like more

and she smiled
and put her right hand

in yours and squeezed it
and you smiled

but hoped none
of the other boys around

noticed the hand holding
after all a tough boy

has a reputation to maintain
and as you squeezed

her hand back
clouds darkened

and it started
to piss with rain.

poem by Terry Collett
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Image

The girl in the mirror stared back at me.
Unflinching.
Eyes blood shot.
Cheeks stained with tears and sweat.
Her hands dangled weakly, swollen
and splattered with blood.
Matted hair sprung from her head and the black circles
made her eyes seem all the more sunken. Desperate.
She was small. Shriveled.
All hope sucked from her soul and left a scar
across her gray face like a tree branch
reaching for the sun but anchored by the abandoned
body of a young girl whose heart
had long ago stopped beating.
the fallen soldier of a country whose world
had fought against it. A country of Purity.
And this girl raised a cut and bruised arm
and lifted the mask from her face. Hesitantly.
The scars faded.
They left tiny white lines on my arms and face.
And my eyes cleared;
Hope glistening from them
and making my skin glow.
My hair curled softly.
My hands healed and were cleansed.
A slight pink stain rested on my fingers
My flesh was watered back to life.
And I smiled.
A weak, crooked sort of smile.
My teeth were not in their places
and a few were chipped,
but I loved the sight of that broken grin.

poem by Zoe Guillory
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Red Hot In Black

(r. stewart, j.cregan, k.savigar)
I met her in a little french cafe
Legs like a young giraffe
She was sitting reading baudelaire
Not exactly working class
She had a studio in st. michel
Crucifix around her waist
Che guevara all over the wall
She cant stand the sun on her face
Hey boys, what a look
Stop a train at fifty feet
Matching hair, matching clothes and eyes
Kinda like a tiger in heat
Red hot in black
Red hot in black
Revolution running through her veins
A radical from head to toe
The only record that she ever played
Was just like a rolling stone
We started talking by the candlelight
Her lips get closer to mine
We started dancing all around the room
Helped by a bottle of wine
Hey boys, mystery
Didnt even know her name
One night in paris, with a girl like that
Never going home again
Red hot in black
Red hot in black
Oh my, when I woke up
Shed already gone out to her work
My head was aching and my back was scratched
Ive never, never, never known a night like that
Took a walk along the avenue
So in love and so confused
My plane was leaving in half an hour
What would you have done in my shoes?
Hey boys, so you see
Couldnt get her outa my head
My regards to the folks back home
Gonna spend some time with red
Red hot in black
Red hot in black

song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your Whispered Breath

Your whispered breath
Lips close to ear
Words of love
Breathed accross cheek
Hair brushes my shoulder
Caressing bare skin
Over chest sweet kisses
Tongue wet
Lingers around nipple
Moist lips
Sigh
Hand tangled in hair
Kissed neck in response
Teeth nipping gently
Ear lobes
You astride
Nails leaving
Red wheals
Tracing
Lovers aroused
Coupling, joined
Passions giving vent
Lovers payment, rent
Hot bodies
Glistening
Damp, wet
Lovers spent
Consumed
With each other
World forgotten
Sleep beckons
In the others arms
Wanten lust
Stated
Not abated.

RG/NB

poem by Robert Green
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Iron Cross

THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,
Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?
The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,
Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sin
They plead before the Iron Cross?
Or for some gift of gold or dross?
Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,
They pass before the Iron Cross,
The Cross, that ancient words emboss,
Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.
His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —
The Crucified, who knows all loss,
And had on Earth no resting place.
'O world of men,' he seems to say,
'Behold me on your Iron Cross!
To me why kneel and tell your loss?
Why kneel to me and weep and pray?
'Have I not taught you to forgive?
And bade you from my Iron Cross
Believe, and bear your grief and loss,
That after death you too may live?
'You have not followed at my call!
You keep me on this Iron Cross,
And pray me keep you from all loss,
And save and comfort you withal.—
'You ask for love, and hate the more! —
You keep me on this Iron Cross!—
Restore to me my greater loss,
The brotherhood of rich and poor.'
They pass, with weary eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross —
The Nations, wailing of their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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