It was the smell; hot and lusty
Like desire too long denied
Swelling, dangerous waves,
Tossed by careless winds
It was the listless darting
It was the ashes
Black patches where men walked
But their knees gave way too quickly
It was only the image of a man
Unforgivingly straight, a blind eyed gaze
Glistening bright under sun and polish
Called Maker by his skilful makers
Three fools still standing
Like blooms out of season
Amidst bowed heads and hands raised
In desperate supplication to the dead
His Majesty’s fury was a terror
How their voices shook as they stood
Clipped commands carried them
A flick of furious fingers
One, two, many cries
Stop!
Strolling in the raw red glow
Amidst the greedy licking inferno
Three fools strolling and still
A fourth man in the furnace
Son of a God not cast in bronze
Walked among them in the impotent blaze.
Written by Maranatha Chibundom Abraham
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