poetry

Sturm und Drang
by Francis Macansantos

Of old it has been the custom to pray,
To sip wine from the very cup of God
On the eve of the day for shedding blood—
Prayer, itself, driving conscience away
Like only a divine freedom may,
Cleansing the heart with ichor, with a flood
Of sweetest sanction, absolute and good—
A molten star coursing through the lump of clay.

We have taken on the role of pestilence
And play at Death to scare it with a mask
Modeled on its very face. We conjure
Demons to engross us in the vassal task.
Thus do we gain respite from that brutal silence
Called Peace, that no one can really endure.

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