A Page Torn from the Gospel

It brings news from the battlefield,

a trampled visor.

Behind our village, a wasteland,

nettles grow there to the sky and itch

on the places of the morning's touch;

they cover lips with scars,

the blackberry wine of the Aztecs

cools and waves at us,

for to reach the meeting place

brings good stories for sleeping,

and then they drag us like rabble to the cross.

So tell me, how often are we defenceless,

who will singe the fine hairs in your armpit?

Before us slither royal boa constrictors.