On a night like this,
beneath clouds of white concrete
a cradle of motionless stars;
I sit and ponder,
the mystery of a king
trading his life for a starry eyed wonderer.
What would he have said
of this wooden jungle grounded in concrete,
mini-cages holding lives
he wills the gift of freedom,
healing rooms that cure the coffin
but not the bone.
Aye! I ask myself,
what would he have thought,
of boxes that look within but see not the person,
of mirrors that speak the truth
in syllabus that only the deaf comprehend.
Of little value is the spring dew
to the flesh of a spirit languishing from thirst.
On a night as such,
beneath white concrete clouds
I ask myself
of what use are stars
if they lead us nowhere in the dark.