Richard Betts (December 8,1964 / Philadelphia, PA)
We send another dagger deep into its side;
And still we are forgiven.
We crucify and curse it,
If every dropp of blood is not given.
We watch with anticipation,
As it staggers from its wounds.
We clamor for our buckets,
To scope up the oozing crude.
I return to view the violence
And survey the scene of our desecration.
But all that remains
Are the scars of our devastation.
We must change our course,
For if we fail to make the correction,
Finality will fuel the future,
And there will be no resurrection.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.