Here again, among
these arching trees
Walking these foggy paths
Wounded dragon's sweat
And frisky fairy's breath

This forest's trembling pilgrims
can almost hear their eyes roll
Carrying decaying bodies
Their worn shoed feet
Leave serpent marks

Into this bunch of freaky trees
and leafy booms and branchy bangs
The poor souls pray
Holding cold palmed hands
Patting each others shaking back

Their pockets bloated full
Utensils, lighter, water
A round cleansing lemon
Their mother's holy charm
Burns their heaving chests

On the way to the church
Each bush seems pregnant
with a jumping jester
The forest's leafy fluff
God's efficient insulator

The scheming priest of soothes
Heard their pleading moans
as he comes down the hill
The withered crowd cheers
greets him with paper flags

The priest takes the lead
spiraling lines of fools
Wagging arms and jerky legs
Streched lips and wild eyes
The secret macabre dance

And now, my God!
The night is full of needles
silent, violent, swift
Methodic slapping wakes the birds
and makes the owl flee

Under the tired hanging trees
The numbness spreads
the creasing brows,
the spasming toes,
the plastered smiles

And a poor kid
digging his marked flesh
Mouth foaming
like a burned snail

Into the forest of confusion,
The freaky pilgrims come
Day by day
They shake paper flags
And sleep in dirty orchards

Pray you never join
their mystic nightly cadence

Fotios, May 2003