Osiris

The moon will rise this snowy night
and spread its silver spell of light
upon the Rosy land, the West
dying sunset of the Occident.

But zenith of tomorrow's sun
which rises in our sky of fun
will bring not joy nor warmth our way
or grace to anyone.

From word to word we cannot say
which rank of good or bad is worst or best,
for we, the moonstruck children, do not pray
and cannot cry or rest.

Our hearts are starched and pressed.
Our garments are not wrent.
We drink and kiss all night and day,
and feast and laugh another Lent.

And signs of stars and heaven, din of war
will frighten us enlightened children nevermore,
the clean and blessed children of the corn.
Our blessing means we do not mourn.

We're happy since we are not poor.
Our purity is jest.
And to the meek, the scarred land is scarcely lent.
The moon is our inheritance.

I hate that lunar Baal who brings
upon us all these lunar things,
the horoscopes and witching palms
on whose account we give no alms.
And some queer wizard's laughter steals our qualms.

The writing on dear Daniel's wall
is dread reminder of our fall.
That Zoroaster priest at last
will come because we do not fast.

The Temple's veil will not be torn,
no holy chalice, no crown of thorns.
And in Jerusalem we'll see
abomination of ancient prophecy,

the man who comes in his own name
to kill the sick and crush the lame,
and put the world to its great test,
Beast of Paris, Osiris of the Orient.

{This poem has been concurrently Published at Nargis McKinley's Diner of Meaning.}