Here at the drizzle-dripping drainpipe of time
Born was the babe that prophecies foretold.
Missiles had flown at the hour of his birth
And money along untraceable Swiss-banking chains.
Swaddled in the sewers of larvae and lice
His was the need of miracles of lore.
Rather he would starve in uncaring heat
Or riddled with malarial fevers would lie
On unattended beds with concert of flies.
Throned atop heaps of rubbish they’d still
Hurl at us sermons of sour-rotten phlegm
That’ll churn our livers in pain.
Thrown up in circles of such stinking shame
How shall our winds bear unforeseen spring?
Fixed into lightnings of en-clouded wombs
I gaze beyond curtains of unbecoming mists
And pray for the tumult of that crowning force
Whose refrain is Fire and the Rain.