Shadows and crosses: A poem 

We have grown up amid fake strictures 

And the order of contrived didactions 

That we must elude clouds 

Or we may not get away 

That we have learnt to leave the crosses 

a little too helplessly, a little too hastily 

So that we have no answers 

when the hunchbacked missionary 

seeks with his eyes. 

Off the chest is the furtive run 

The blame is always on the other one 

That in our hearts we sense an enervation  

Feeling Jesus writing on the street 

names of men 

who so quickly and so quietly 

withdraw into their guilty darkness