There are knocks in life so hard… what the hell do I know!
knocks of God hate, as if driving
the riptide of suffering
were to dam the soul… what the hell.
Though few… they carve lines
in the fiercest face and the toughest back
Maybe they’re Attila’s horses
or the black harbingers sent by Death
They are the abysses of the Christ in soul
of some utter faith blasphemed by Destiny
the blood hits in the crackling bread
that burns us at the oven’s door
And poor poor man, he turns his eyes
as if slapped on the shoulder
turns his crazy eyes, and everything lived
is dammed, a little lake of guilt, in his sight
There are hard knocks… what the hell do I know!