It’s time to bear the pall.
The pendulum is still.
The pit is split. The world is small.
The wind is cold and chill.
To deep holes in our sacred ground
are lowered profane veins.
The black blood flows through them unbound.
The earth will wear the stains.
The sounds of prayer hang in the air
and mix with tear gas fumes,
the body snatchers unaware
the curse their hoe exhumes.