Intolerance Part III: The St Bartholomew's Day Massacre

1572 A.D. Paris.

Brown Eyes, make me your goodnight kiss.
This last time, with the flames of life alight,
kiss me now and say goodnight,
a hand which marked so cruel,
the water soup and the morning gruel,
say goodnight and you shall see,
the gates of heaven crossed with keys.

The stars wrapped up in velvet arms,
the silver globe will be wet with tears,
your pale hand will sweep the brooks and rivers,
where the fairies cross and the creatures mix,
the nymph which lives amongst the moss.
All shall weep and bow as you pass
when the Queen of Angels breaths her last.

The tap on your door tells me our time is up.

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poem by Ross Mackay
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The Field at Night

To the field at night,
yellow crisp moon dips its paintbrush,
into the tar sea of grass.
Sombre spectre in woe,
banging the gates at the bottom pasture,
drying her eyes on white.
Glow of floating dust,
tempting strangers from the path,
to be lost to the dark.

--Rags of the angel cast the only light,
-In sight,
-there are ghosts out tonight.

In the fogged sky,
the eye of yellow endlessly watching,
old man of heaven.
No human features,
just a violent breath now and then,
when trees turn electric.

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poem by Ross Mackay
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The Asylum

'London's burning, London's burning,
fetch the books, Fahrenheit 451'

The inmates gawk from our ward's window,
they don't look back,
they walk no further.
(Shakes his head in dismay)
That's right my apple-picking friend,
not much has changed since you fell off the ladder.

I dip my hand into the melting ice of the glass.
I can smell it, I say.

In the fire's waving ecstasy,
I'll try to reap its piquant lick.
Aye, the smoke, as it singes the plastic of my hands.
Inner peace, inner peace,
the monk of Tibet knows,
'I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now'

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poem by Ross Mackay
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