monstrous Medusas,
shattered sons of Pilate,
loud, untethered, cruel;
lazy with thought and with tongue.
You,
fallacious followers
of the fashions of the day.
who choose to mold spiteful lies
out of love,
who make a morbid mockery
out of meaning.
This is to let you know
that I will not follow you to slaughter,
or worse,
to the insidiousness of indifference.
I shall go to the river,
to sit among the mangrove trees
and listen to their song.
I will bend my ear
to the faint whisper of that
still, small voice,
the song of the lonely
and the orphaned,
the lost, widowed
and bewildered.
And if the waters rise,
and the rocks cry out,
if the ancient chorus were to
raze your gated castles to the ground,
do not fear:
We will rebuild,
without castes, without walls,
with new eyes to see.
We will find sanctuary,
offering balms of Gilead,
for battered hearts
and souls burning with question and doubt.
And the seraphic song will be sung:
"You are not forgotten, child."
Come home,
back to the river,
to the ancient mangroves with me;
the beloved longs to have you near.
Come,
sit,
let yourself be known.
Let us meet, today,
in love,
healing,
overwhelming,
all-consuming,
ineffable love.
And You,
you of whom I spoke,
listen close:
they're singing for you.
"You are not forgotten, child,
you can come home, too."
