Читать книгу Cattle of the Lord - Rosa Elise Branco - Страница 17

RAPE AND RUN

Everything in its time. That’s how it seems

when we look at the darkening field.

For a moment the flowers gleam more

than at noon. It is always like that just before death.

In the air the vague shapes of birds, passing witnesses.

A few smashed insects, horizontal grass. Moist

as if it had been raining. Whoever drives knows that screams

travel faster than words. Without headlights in the darkness

of the throat. Lord, your lamb is shorn,

torn wool scattered on the ground like seeds.

For what cloak will you invest this day? It was almost night,

almost time. Clothes ripped away.

Is this the wheat of your harvest?