The Stabbed Souls
From fallow harvests thresh-field,
He enmeshed, watchful,
The hapless and unshaven souls
About sackful stench of village strife,
In procession to the subterranean shrine.
Their mouth-roofs shipwreck on Bougarabou drums,
Cluttered with subdued nightfall in the shadow Teak,
Blabbering solicitous-cries unheard,
Like a mad madam ploughing her teeth.
Pointing in dismal flare,
How fondness night hides the gleaming sun,
While subtle eventide of tormented souls
Stagger, groan and stagger on shrunken metal hope;
From humiliating traverse to the burning cave,
Holden in frontage of the bleeding moon,
Whose bovine backs stabbed by the spirits-bearer,
Denied their priest and persecutor.