The wind is blowing hard
There is nothing left to sweep away
Every bit of creation
Is down to the ground
All those are left are:
Dust muck trashes debris
Trunks branches bones
And a few memories
In the minds of Time and satellites
Saved in black holes
The only music
That God can hear is
Of the air passing through
The skull of a crocodile
Like the first vuvuzela
He, already too tired of prayers,
Is lulled off to sleep
--
The poem is over now
It is tea-time now
With some mocha cookies
Topped with chocolate chips
Cored with liquid black chocolate.
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