The first and last manifestation

The wind sways the barley field in waves.

Christ is weeding out the poppy flowers.

Merciless sun high, high up, hung high.

Counterfeit scarecrows extend their arms.

Not a cloud, not a cloud in sight.

Taken by surprise by a distant shout, the ravens soar.

Nails driven deep into the timbers.

For five hundred years they have practised,

the preparations are ready.

The day has come.

The wind sways the golden manes.

This day is fate-changing and like any other.

Christ walks among the shouting men.

Their gut-gripping hatred carefully sought out.

Hate is behovely but all shall be well.

Every man and thing shall swell with pride.

Sometimes, no man deserves pity.

The near-bursting veins on their forehead

make them look as ridiculous as when

they shit, pants dropped on their heels, and pant.

This hot day was endured to allow men

to piddle against the backwall of their garden.

Sometimes, the magnitude of life drowns in

the most meaningless, mind-numbing routine.

In the mean-time, as it one day happened,

the wind sways the barley field in waves,

And Christ is weeding out the poppy flowers.