Читать книгу Days and Times - Paul K. Hooker - Страница 12

Let us be gods of small things,

lords of mice and roaches,

bastard sons and daughters

of happy, smiling gods

who bless their acolytes

with touchdowns and close-in parking.

Let us stand to the ends of things:

parting notes of postludes

in empty sanctuaries,

apologetic exits

whispered at the door,

the echo of the deadbolt.

Let us walk the hallways after

light and hope burn out,

read from silent liturgy

prayers addressed to no one,

hear from mislaid hymnals

music no one sings.

Let us raise the chain link fence,

last fence around the Table

that bars the way to all

lest any come unworthy

to take the meal, until

the meal is taken from us.

Let us be the wrecking-ball;

swung from moral heights

we bring down the house,

then hang condemned when done,

the evidence against us

stone not left on stone.

But let us be at last the rain

that falls on wrack and ruin,

washes out the stain

—see, even now it falls—

and waters wheat and vine

and pools in broken fonts.