They asked me to end the world
But “make it beautiful.”
Every day, the Anti-Christ’s
Left hand grabs at me.
They do not know or understand
What sky’s fire feels on tender heart-skin.
Not as I now know
Death that dries my wells.
Can I sketch my dying son upon these
Holy walls? To paint him breathing, that
I could kiss his living cheek again?
Prickle my cheek on his young hair…
Mary, I will plaster you to your Son,
For I know the dark pit of death
Your valiant, cherishing heart has
Swallowed, choking. Hold him here
I, too, laid my child in a tomb.
So hold your Child, Mother Mary,
Hold Him weeping, grieving.
This is the end of all worlds,
The death of all to take a child.
You cry on His hand, Mary,
Is grief still too near?
Oh, Mourning Mother, these
Fifteen hundred years
And is your grief still too near?
Mourning Mother help me paint the
End of the world, for I haven’t strength
To walk across these tiles, away from the
Black flowers of dead sons.