What will come when all the days have run upon the nights
and all men climb the tree of Zaccheus
and stretch necks beyond giraffes
to be the first to be blazed by a star?
We are badly in need of ecstasy.
We freeze in sun and fever in shadows.
We die amid the flowers of the mind.
Someone must come to us from the future
prodigally, with rings and robes and kisses,
and fall upon our self-reproach
with the tears of welcome.
The star-child is turning
in the womb of the virgin.
We dwell in readiness.
Override the babble of our words
with the raw cries of new life.
Be born, stubborn child.
We wait.
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