March

Poetry by NMokde Abuay

They walked in a row –
squinting, wincing, limping –
to know peace
and the soup of the monks.

He only had women
coming from hell, Lord,
with dusty dresses
the skull shaved, blued.

Like a chained dog
the guide harassed them, snarling,
as if these sheep
were going to graze in paradise.

It was a day of celebration
and life was crying with health,
like a young farmer
who squandered the paternal good.

Looking down, right,
all white tennis courts,
they crossed without noise
the courtyard of the monastery.

There were lots of kids …
When they turned to the temple
the hubbub engulfed them
like a summer dew.

And before God and the Lord
they were silent more red than the clay:
that he infuses them with love
and the tires of darkness.

They were all crazy.

But one went up to the pulpit
and arms outstretched
praised the order and the law.

Standing near the porch,
another slept, blessed, in the niche
and dreamed that she was removing
the eyes of God with a nail.

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NMokde Abuay writes under the pen name of Mao_Tss. It's me.