Cleansing of Sin

Conscience, blind,
sat quietly beside sin.
In the blue sky,
a shroud of cloud—
lust flared like a low-born flame.
 
When life slipped from truth,
inside the snake’s shed skin
death lay bewildered—
the body’s form still powerful,
but those who should cross over
will never reach the other side.
 
Will no one speak
for another’s sake?
The coins for passage—
each clutched to its own chest.
 
When you try to name
the lamp of the sky,
the demon comes down
with lightning speed.
 
Better sadness than
off-key monsoon tears,
or the false joy that burns the earth
at the borders of entitlement.
 
Everyday swimmers drown
in nets of numb indulgence.
All know death will come;
ahead, only desert—
yet where to go?
 
I prefer to stay close to the earth,
to live in the mud.
This is my sin—
this is where I am.
 
Is it the curse of the primal age
or the culture of civilization?
The killer will not smear
blood and salt upon his own skin.
 
On endless empty roads
walk bare feet—
where is the sage?
Where is the saint?
Where the wildfire?
Where the flame
that will, at last,
purify me?