A Pall

(on the passing of Pope John Paul II)

The marchers mass to mourn the pope,
Grief weeps in outpoured tide,
But in the end is sorrow stopped
And right of way denied,

For special access is reserved
So presidents may abide,
Heads bowed in pledge to pay respect
By pageantry contrived.

With pomp and pride, and privilege wide,
Bush Junior and Senior kneel.
The pontiff's corpse, without remorse,
They eye but nothing feel.

With folded hands in solemn clasp,
Laura nestles by their side,
In spectacle of piety
As custom is complied.

What reverence they pay in death
To the pontiff lying deceased,
Who would not heed his waking words
When he cried aloud for peace.

Yet now St. Peter's is the only place
For politicians to be seen,
Small bier in the basilica,
Obsequious in scene.

So let us heed the prophet's voice
As unseen spirits glide
To warn us it is time to fear
When devils pray allied.

Apr. 7, 2005