Gospel

    We are the children of light,

    Wise, not companioned

    By goats

    In a condemned graveyard.

    Backward blowing

    Blizzards of memory

    Flatten out

    The genealogies.

    But here a point,

    The objective essence

    We work in.

    We shall not drink from the stink-pots.

    Propaganda,

    Gospel spread

    With tin shovels,

    We are this generation.