The Black Messengers

In life there are blows so heavy. ‘I don’t know.
Blows like God’s hatred; as if before them
The undertow of all that is suffered
Should be dammed up in the soul. ‘I don’t know.’

There are few; but they exist. Dark chasms
Open in the boldest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they shall be the steeds of barbaric Attilas
Or the black messengers that death sends us.

They are the profound backslidings of Christs of the soul
From an adored faith, blasphemed by destiny.
These bloody blows are the cracklings
Of some bread that we have burned in the door of the oven.

And man. Wretch! Wretch! He turns his eyes,
As if behind our backs a clap of hands summons us;
He turns mad eyes and all that has been lived
Is dammed up like a puddle of blame in his look.

In life there are blows so heavy. ‘I don’t know.’