пятніца, 14 снежня 2007 г.

2.1 The Parable of the Finger-tips

by Father Humour

Ill, sick men come to me.
I take their wet, shaking fingers
and touch them gentley.
Their soft finger tips - cold and burnt
help me.

I feel their finger tips with mine.
Their individual existences printed
into their fingers - their lives echoed
in the beaten, rough, cut fingers.

They came from the streets.
I do not, for I am Saint.
I am forever here, forever myself.

They beg forgiveness for sins never

Sometimes, I lick their fingers. I place
the softness, the sensitive tongue upon
the salty, cold, and burnt finger tips.
I taste their piss, and I weep.

No comments: