The Bonfire Chorus

I was born

  with a mouthful of ash

       from all the books

            we had not yet burned;

drifted southward

   off northern steppes

with the sulphiric tase of sin,

and shame,

and a hopeless hope

           landing snowflake

on fiery tongues

      shouting hallelujahs;

"hosanah,

     "the son has come."

When my father

    took the clot of blood

from my hand,

   he gave me a shovel and a torch

     and joined the bonfire chorus

        to sing blasphemous refrains:

    "Follow us down

         "to the swinging trees,

      "and we can show you

          "where the saviors be.

     "And mark where

           "the tapping crow flies,

      "and he can show you

            "where your brother lies."

So now it is time again,

         and again time has come again,

the time to burn and bury--

    The Mongols will ride again!

    The Mongols will ride again!

and burn all the words again,

   and bury the broken images again.

      And the dust

            shaken from history's march

                      will land snowflake

             on parched lips,

cracking with their smiles

         and singing,

"hallelujah,

       "hallelujah,

"let's do it all again".