you grow me here a tree.
Of illegitimate abundance -
the bastard son of a crow.
And Mithras was nailed to a tree by Mithras.
By Mithras!
The tree has been stolen
The tree has been stolen
by lies (enveloping Gilgamesh,
enveloping Enki and Ishtar),
which are drawing down the heavenly bull
and parading it in nightly paroxysm.
So what would we know
from the blood of this crow?
Do we eat it and gain its wise insight?
More wisdom than learned from its cawing,
its birdsong,
sunburnt by billowing ragtime.
We'll dig on this day for it's bones
in a copse of cold cryptomeria,
an antiquity, a black gulf of time.
The usurpers have cost us just everything.
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