And all the pretty angels, heaven sent
and laughing at their infamous little rebellion
settling down and heart in throat choke with
dawning in a land that carries no sun, dawning
with understanding that before they had none
with understanding that Before is now gone ...
corpse-light masks dance on the darkness, smiling
cadaver props play in blackness, still born
and lifeless, these ghost-people (little ghosts!)
weaving without moving, neither shadow nor light,
neither living nor dead (and knowing nothing)
hopelessly excited in their endless endeavor:
to live without dying, to die without living
to love without wanting, needing or having
a cause or a care and singing
in childlike voices
"we down here"
and in childlike voices, saying
"Papa Sataen, Papa Sataen, aleppe
we down here
we cans smell the salt on your skin
(o lord thou pluckest me out)
on your breath
we cans smell your hesitation
(o lord thou pluckest)
your nervousness ...
and we cans smell your fear."