Language clear and see-through as poisoned
water, deadly as a ballerina’s smile. The foal
isn’t innocent; look at the way it bites the bark
and leaves trees dying. The normal lamb will butt
you in the crotch – and rightly so. The lamb
too cute for its own good, the helpless one on
legs like unspun wool? It dies first as the Good
Shepherd talks straight with a butcher’s knife.
Language, the politician’s tool; language unclear,
the civil servant’s fodder. Theirs is the Chemical
Wedding of might. The new alchemy
became the old religion. All popes called Innocent
were knowing politicians and –uncivil to mention it–
creators of endless strings of civil wars. The lamb
too cute for its own good. The helpless one
on legs like unspun wool. It dies first.