I say now quite frankly 
to friend and to foe, 
the end is upon us, 
the tide it ebbs low.
As insipid weakness
breaks open the cracks, 
in dreamland and daylight 
we see what we lack.

The bare brittle ego, 
the nation, the tribe, 
the scared, cornered beast 
with claws out to survive.
In this polarised climate
of love, hate and quirks, 
each shall be given
in line with their works. 

For labourers chosen
and heeding the call, 
a place of great balance
comes after their fall. 
The beam of divinity
cuts to the bone, 
shatters their selves
and collapses their homes. 

Bloodied they rise
from the dust with a cry, 
to continue the gauntlet 
of arrows and lies, 
where the star and the pebble,
the brook and the tree,
guide them to touching
the One found in three.

As souls born of light,
here in darkness they see
the template of paradise, 
cursed and yet free. 


For N.K.