Whenever seven dots appear on the hanging firth of the brook
We summon mercies upon our shattered dreams.
Just like the vagitus breaking forth the silence of a misted dawn,
We shall sit in orgies of prayers,
Drinking down pints of sin,
Selecting pages of scenes
And rebuking tendons of debauchery.
Find us, please
With restless, loosened tongues
And wiles of retribution.
We shall ask for the patterned grief of Sunday
And repay it not, through the laws of borrowed leaves.
Pray, brethen, with sealed, oiled lips.
Pout your mouths in earnestness of contrition.
Death is no respecter of persons.
As well, natural disasters and pandemics are no respecters of nations.