We
shall all become cleansed when
we
find the car,
nestled
amongst the rubble and the ashes,
down
in the alley,
where
the wild root grows.
I
saw the search-lights
reflected
on your sooty skin,
and
smelled the kerosene
in
your clothes,
and
pictured you in flames
among
the art-work,
a
come-hither smile on your lips.
When
they call our numbers
on
the megaphones,
we
fix our hair in the reflection
of a
cracked store-front window,
put
on our best faces,
march
two by two.
At
the last hour,
you
will be made powerful and terrible,
you
will find beauty within the bones.
At
the last hour,
I
will become something
extraordinary.
Recorded version of the poem; Words by me, music by Luke Willis
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