Gospel
We are the children of light,
Wise, not companioned
By goats
In a condemned graveyard.
Backward blowing
Blizzards of memory
Flatten out
The genealogies.
But here a point,
The objective essence
We work in.
We shall not drink from the stink-pots.
Propaganda,
Gospel spread
With tin shovels,
We are this generation.
