Black Death

That of God in every man, can you see it?
Pull back the yellow stained curtains;
chisel out the crusted mess from your eyes
collect the stinking garments, bring them to the fire
scramble over the self-erected barricades
begin the journey to the land that bears fruit

The scales and blinkers will spring away
and down, like giant hale stones descending
onto a drum, stretched with lambskin.

Skin, bloodied and scarred by searing juices on lit coals -
a sour breath from mouths sucking on vinegar sponges -
a congregation of Protestant and Catholic Northern Irish

On gallant white horses, they charge one another
heads on shrugged shoulders ideologically colliding
the great plague of lost limbs, eyeballs and spilled innards

A black death worse than filthy rats,
served up with a drum roll on silver plates
as superior tradition and heritage

Poisonous religious gas, pumped into the chambers
of corrugated peace walls for the other side to breathe
they celebrate the massacre of others in defence of their own

Unfinished business, that of God in every man!
Poke religious teachers for the truth
pinch yourself to knowledge