A Poet woke up,
And awake he dreamt
He was dreaming.
A boat, a backwater,
And he began rowing.

Winds of hatred came
Blowing from the horizon;
Churning the waters
And rocking the boat.
And he keeps rowing,
Dreaming and rowing
Rowing and dreaming.

At the right margin:
Bible in hand.
Vomiting scriptures.
“Blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
Who suffered on the cross.”

But no,
In that womb it wasn’t Jesus;
Nor blessed was the fruit.
A fruit of continuous abuse.
A fruit of the inhumane.
A fruit of years of rape.

– “Assassin!” – “Whore!”
– “I bet she liked it”.

A ten year old child
Crying and crying,
And her tears soaking
The only one smiling;
Her teddy bear.
The only eyewitness
Of paedophilia.

Jesus said,
“Let the little children come to me,”

Religiosity, violence,
Rape and paedophilia.
The Poet was amazed.
This didn’t fit in a rhyme!
Facing winds of hatred,
He continued upstream.


— Ricardo Sexton



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