(No. 44)April 1
As the world crumbles, who bears the fault?
How big the question Eve and Adam raised?
How slow to learn? How deep to grind to halt?
The fault is ours, says Yahweh. We squirm half crazed.
Nine passes round about the sun transpire
And still I write and now await my query.
My tramp has found both friend and sweet-tongued liar
And trust has proven true of being wary.
The Happy Day approaches stamping hard
Appointed as unsealed is the Word.
My query pending from lips reserved in guard
Of revelation leaving feelings stirred.
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