Pater Imon

Processing, boys in finery
A filigree globe, the Light;
The cross, a golden replica
Held high, in solemn rite.

Behind them, smoke billows
From Frankincense spread o’er us,
We are blessed, we are cleansed,
No more at sin’s behest.

The cup and bread revered,
Covered with lavish tapestry
Paraded down the aisle
For all the world to see...

Comes next the Priest,
Pater Imon,
White damask robe threaded with gold;
They kneel, reach out and touch ~
They seek a brush with holiness.

Many crouch, close to the ground,
Three fingers fervent touching,
They bow their heads,
For they have sinned-
They feel they need forgiving.

But who shall forgive?
A man in white, who preaches of our nation’s plight
And says that with the fires,
God seeks to punish us?

Who shall forgive?
This messenger, who speaks of Nationalistic fears,
Of conflict of a thousand years?
Keep it alive, he advocates.

The reason that we gather there
Is to learn of love - a human need;
The Truth, the Way, the Light is lost,
When filled with hate, our ears they feed.

And so the world continues on,
Divided by ancient ideals,
We suffer, and we fight and die,
United not - we’ll stumble far...
Crushed under hatred’s wheels.

Kira Braun