Rot hung in the fetid air…
Black robes ragged, purple haze a faded grey,
Smell of death everywhere..
Tallow tapers ceased to burn,
Dried yellow brown replaced white in turn…
Bulky altar with warped veneer a velvet sheen,
Not beauty but texture splintered and obscene,
Putrid plush curtains, a background screen,
Massive pulpit, foxed book with pictures torn complete the scene.
Pride preached burning fields,
Election sealed righteous greed.
Black rivers produced rich yields,
But no oil anointed those in need.
Widow’s pennies built stone towers,
But on altars no children’s flowers…
Fling out the banners they sang,
To Afrik’s dark and heathen land,
India and China where no bells rang,
Men prayed in tongues none could understand…
Can these bones live? met sepulchral silence…
Crypt was sealed ’til trumpet draw men hence…
Written by: Albert Jungers
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.