Prose

Oh precious and distant land!

Have you set your eyes on the spirit of the days between?
Or the seasonings of the season?

Yesterday, tenderers of the fields of thrones came down from their sacred poles to join the legion of well wishers.

They sang 25 feliz navidads to the little boy in a manger.
And asked the people to
Follow his way.

A father of the day will come in his chariot in an hour unknown
To leave gifts at every doorstep.
But they went their way into the woods
With sacks full of fatty things for themselves.

But many days before yesterday
The people gathered at the foot of the Grand Temple
To seek audience with the King.
But the King did not oblige.
His ears were immersed in a drum of acacia gum.

So
He has not heard the din bellowing from the fissures of the land.

He has not heard that the women no longer go about their chores with wrappers tied across their breasts.

He has not heard that maidens no longer go to the streams to fetch water.

He has not heard that the children’s playgrounds have become dwellings of wild beasts.

He has not heard that the men of the land lay their heads on machetes.

He has not heard that his council of chiefs have emptied the barn.

He has not heard that by weight and measure the people eat.
And in anxious care they drink.

He has not heard that tomorrow has been abducted and a ransom placed on its head.

He has not heard that the courtyard guards poked on the honey combs
And the bees are out prowling for revenge.

Oh precious and distant land!
Where are thy prophets?

Are they not breaking bread with the King and toasting to his reign?

Are they not declaring the land green and sowing seeds of delusion?

Did they not say God spoke to them that this year will be the year of all goodness
Yet it went up in a thick plume?

Oh precious and distant land!
How long will your people grope in day light
Searching for a goat on whose head to lay their sins.

Oh precious and distant land!
How long will the riotous crowds
Call down divine fire on neighbourhood enemies
While the Chieftains of the synagogue of Satan walk about gayly.

Oh precious and distant land!
When will you vomit your inhabitants,
Clear the altars of dungs
And loaves of foolishness and evil?

Until then,
Hide the few good people left in a crevice.
Cover their eyes with your plam.

They have seen enough!

About author
Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, Newspackng.
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