Wednesday, March 6, 2013
The Ancient Rule Of Men
'Who is it that can tell me who I am?' Lear
Frail, cast on a monk's bed, finally still,
can he ever be ordinary again? Cough unheard?
Or will the weight of infallibility linger?
He appears, to bless the crowd one last time, and,
lacking vigour, betrays the hollowing he represents:
corrupt whispers flutter; secret hands caress soutanes.
The edifice crumbles. Silk-clad princes gather in conclave
and the ancient rule of men asserts grim dominance.
He prays to his god in a quiet back room: living relic.
So, we wait for the smoke. The old sign that the temporal seat
of God's realm is filled once more. Prayers will be said.
And still, children will be taken into the arms of men.
6 March 2013