Page 16
By Jack Joseph Smith
The end is a gathering, no more giving, not more taking;
having what you have, showing to the Sun and Moon,
likely the whisper of the loss to Cain the wrinkled
nose of upbringing has been beautified in knowing
Even animals realize that when alone,
nothing is kinder than a sound
This change through centuries,
is why there are no trees in Europe
Equally again, as well we have desired,
our flesh in ashes, balancing, suggesting,
an aerobatic slightness toward the almost,
as good in this Earth as the slaughter; yes;
while age says sight is the constant stumbling,
over the magical rocks
"While as a child only I was the saint with the sword"
The grantie we stood on had no perception,
until it was tugged across the Adriatic
Yes, above the Bible we went, absolutely in the clouds
Those on fire worshiped again, equally