With every morning's dawn Jesus just bled
and again, again to my country aunt
who loved the pressed, the perfumed, gospel said-
Church's daily bread-(Preacher's take-out rant
chewed throughout the day-. Menu stayed the same) .
Ordeals focussed close. World's wounds she'd conceal,
as up in air as God- for hidden shame
unknown caused such griefs and griefs prove sins real.
Then one morning, sky's Lord bled once more,
well she couldn't rise like a renewed Christ.
She was cold and unmoved to what she swore
went with lilies, more prayers, and blood well-iced.
Simple so suited my Aunt Vivian.
Simple's the slam sealing oblivion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem