I once got lost in a country of wimples,
When my heart was the captive of a woman of the cloth,
The saintly mother of anointed whispers,
Who couldn’t deny me the heavenly covers.
I saw her phantom in the breath of a candle,
And couldn’t resist her immaculate druthers.
We lived in the valleys of sinuous motion,
In fuzzy meadows and sweetwater streams,
In raspy moans and volcanic explosions,
In tiny rivulets and plunging ravines.
We could’ve spent a millenium thrusting,
Entrusting the rest to an unborn queen.
And when there were fires they were higher than temples,
And worse than the righteous tears of a child.
They murdered the forests and scorched every shadow,
And they burned in our bodies right down to the marrow.
The least just war on record to date,
Was nothing compared to what love could create.
Where once lay the blankets of our lush vegetation,
There is now just a crater of treasonous waste,
And the remnants of what spread them all over creation,
A matterhorn fallen from vacuous space.
When two ones wanting was too much to stand,
And was still more when glassy rocks covered the land.
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