Hymn of the Magi c.2012

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.