By: Linda Imbler
The agonies of wounded beasts,
sunk in iniquity,
enveloped in malignancy,
suffering great miseries.
The health of armies diminished,
the pursuit of peace scorned,
their arts of truce neglected.
The power of witches,
having brewed strange tea,
initiates a cult of the dead
that offers no hope for bliss.
Who will pay the fine for our travesties?
We've put our foot upon
the neck of seedlings seeking sun.
Contributions of priests, taken away
their counsel no longer sought.
All that's internalized is poisoned air.