The Last Word of Parrhesiastes

By Thoithoi O’Cottage

(The land’s law could not find a cause in him
The land’s psychiatry has certified—
He’s not crazy, but of a different kind or time.)

(He doesn’t recite his poem as many do
Or fill the last minutes with a smoky cigar
Or protest the cross and nails to tear open his life.)

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?
(Barrabas’ joke tickles the land protected against truth
And scorn echoes across its breasts.
They bring the words, make a bonfire of them
Here again in Kangla after such a long time.)

(He always knew thinking bears forbidden fruits here
He always knew and saw this end,
But truth was not to be compromised.)

(They wait for something against their will from him
As if lurking in their ruins some remains of humanity
But they hear the breeze licking the grains of sands in the dust.)

Silence bores through the solid noise of scorn
Red, sticky drops drip like from a leaking faucet
And behold, the earth quakes and is rent in twain.)


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