I sing the praises of all things dead
this is the shrouded world
thus is the coloured world
green of moulding flame
interspersed with minorities in purple
deserted curtains
rotted, draped in half light of hypocrisy
these are the dreams
this is our scripture
psalms unheard
amidst the beloved dead
amidst the rubble, the rabble
murmur-in low monotone
the tribal creed, searched in visions
of ancient truth – the prophet devoured
by the gods of steel and fire
with hallucinatory eyes
and narcotic minds
from the lips of all unholy
from the lips of the harlots
shall come the words
and as it came to pass
so was it written
in righteous indifference
of unrighteous faith-
drowned the unholy
in one tear of hate !
II
these are the dry sounds
these the fruitless voices
the dead songs unheard
our voices united in praise
an infinite concert
from earth to dust
where virgins bed
in sterile simplicity
“she is dead,she is dead
they shall bury thrice
as they shake their head
and explore with pins
her wounds and sins”
certain that dead wombs spawn no mortal men
they have pierced the hearts and souls
they have numbered all the bones
precious wounds before their eyes
the godless’s faith in praise of faith
but what light in praise of light?
III
I yield to desire
to the fury of the wind
as I measure out my hours
with downing of each sour
hear the gentle, dust-voiced choir
in the shrouded twilight sing
“dona nobis pacem
miserére nobis
miserére nobis
dona eis requiem sempitérnam
dominae vobiscum, et cum spritu tuo”
do not ask is it so
father forgive us
now let us go.
listen in vain to prayers without words
without hope or creed
hollow words in aspiration
of our fast-decaying soul
I expire, having lost my found desire
lost the praise of untrue words
praise the prophet never heard
heard the sermon without rhyme
condemned and written
buried alive, stoned on the decaying wall
IV
his bones reformed in purgerated sand
they sang a hollow tune
to the consecrated scriptures
bathed in blood, of the dead world yet to come
“dona nobis pacem
miserére nobis
miserére nobis
dona eis requiem sempitérnam
dominae vobiscum, est spiritus cum te?”
as it was in the beginning
now and ever shall be
world that must end
of the things to come;
the dead tomorrow
the purple shroud
dead things creeping
deads spawn that births destruction
christe eleison
christe eleison
in union chant
come let us die.
About the Author
Joseph A Farina is a retired lawyer in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. An award winning (Sicily) poet . A Pushcart nominee. He draws inspiration from his Sicilian and Canadian roots. Internationally published in the USA, Europe and Middle East.
First prize in PREMIO CITTA’ DI ARONA 2025. He has had two books of poetry published— The Cancer Chronicles and The Ghosts of Water Street and an E-book Sunsets in Black and White.and his latest book,The beach,the street and everything in between.
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