MAFEKING PSALM

O LORD what can i do but
weep as your gracious
grandeur fills my soul
with the precious minerals
of your essence so pure
that even the doves of
paradise can’t laugh in
the face of the silver
toothed lion kissing the
black lamb with the sacred
blood of pious generations
of frozen milk pining for
the birth of THY holy
empire to manifest itself
in the hair of the gorgeous
sun lighting up even the
most dismal of atheist’s
trembling bones;
hark
the
hour
of the epileptic summer
is at hand
the moon is near
a gloveful of roses and dusk
hark
the
eternal
wand of THY divine colour
is nearer to the ghosts of
a radar-torn civilization than
the virginity of each and
every liquid apple of stars