The Last Supper

Bring in the dripping platter with the prophet’s head
Spiced with the venom of our prattling tongues
The child we killed in the womb
The mines we laid and soon forgot
That rip apart the limbs of children
Playing on grass.
Pass on the guns we sell to the deprived
That have no food to feed their young.

Bring in that silver platter dripping with the head of the prophet
Who did not mince his words, and looked straight in the eye.
Bring in the dishes loaded with our benison
And let us turn towards Golgotha, and nourish the old lie.