The Pope, the child, the chimney-sweeper, the lady

Nothing has been said.
We are a doomed race.
We are many things.
And nothing has been said.
But there is evidence of laughter
And things, said that made
The laughter come.
It is demonstrative, in high spirits
And sparkling eyes, creases
Into smiles.
So who knows what is?
Doomed, but, able to afford
Ourselves mirth?
I have confounded myself.
I know nothing
I know nothing
But the Dance of Death,
Hilarity in roses strewn from alabaster ceilings
Myrrh thrown on dancing skulls and bones
The Pope, the child, the chimney-sweeper, the lady.


Anatol Cordua © 2017