by Pavel Chichikov
Seventy, he says, we're at an impasse
Seven decades, then it's patches, only patches –
Old wine skin so frail and thin
Who could pour more grace inside,
The strength would burst his skin
And then a ruddy end
The vessel is a brittle one
Thinks it may not hold too many pints
Of God's own blood
Old skin unsupple, fragile, almost worn
Why should you be sewn and sewn again –
Why were you born
To be this way, to fear, then never more?
Will you be dashed against the ground
Or only poured?
Sourness poured out again, a bitter waste?
Or does the savior sniff the goodly wine of Him
And sip, and taste?
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
