Читать книгу After Eden - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 14

in my childhood on the

streets, I saw in the ripe

hour of each day things

spoken about truth in the

gloomy basement of the

church that were clearly

not true. I passed through

many sanctuaries, where

the good folks wasted dreams,

denied the long lines of sorrow

claiming their kids and waited

for the coming hour to lower

beloved innocence with heaps

of rotting flowers beneath the

earth. in loud hollow tones, I

heard voices by men trained to

think morally exhorting broken

hearts on the block to wait for

coming heaven and the aromatic

blossoming of the stony road. after

all these years, the wailing has not

stopped, the good news yet only

sweeps away the dust, priests are

glad in useless prayer, academics

have their cottage industry studying

our streets and Spanish eyes keep

searching for the promised land

confessing it’s just too damn far

from here.