Stark-naked primitive

earth child frighteningly free

scouring the ground for betel nuts:

a hairless mute

with his butt toward the sky

sniffing about for freedom.

The hum, the buzz

the odor of the common distracts him

long-sighteningly shuffling for food

like hogs rooting for grub.

His is the culture of masters

humused pilgrims vying for India

Puritans assured of new field-findings

bringing Jesus bound on the ships of England

a pressing a desire to imitate Christians.

Is this the faith of imbeciles?

There's an echo of longing therein

a lurching for some lost dream

some untame-able vision

that's here beyond words

or the clothing of the righteous.

The naked truth at the tip of his nose

the dung-yard dirt lacing his nails

these repeat the tale of pilgrims

of those determined, trekking to Compostela 

of reclaimed nudes begging at the Gate

where Lazarus gazes sadly at Abraham.

Is ours the faith of imbeciles?

Where's the tip of our nose

the echo in our soul?

Will we show India our filthy nails?

Will Lazarus greet us at her door?

What will we say?

What will we be?

Will we be...

Yes!  Yes!  Yes! 

 for what?

*...humans won't ever understand everything.

  -Robertson Davies

*Too many Christian churches focus on social work and too many religions behave as if humans are  Lord of Creation and everything else is subject to them.

  -Robertson Davies

*An excess of zeal to do good to others is bad stuff.

  -Robertson Davies