Hungry white death came howling and swirling
across my hardened fields; its chilling calls
not stilled by my porous and quaking walls
or the rattling window panes, all shaking.
On my table was today's snow wet paper
slowly dripping news and riv'lets of tears,
something about strange funeral biers,
it lay inert and stank with a rising moist vapor, unmoved.
While in that searing season of heat
those people in a long and ragged line
trudged slowly up a dusty path
cradling in their arms
their very best things now wrapped
in bloody blankets
sprinkled with falling ashes,
and praying
that this world is not what it seems as
the glowing open mouth and licking hot tongues of
the funeral pyre welcomed their children
to pass in through this day of boiling
black smoke and billowing white ash
to the healing sweet waters
that leave nothing to desire, at all
