Easter 1963

Every fragile flower Weaves a different sense of power But the old gardener His hands and fingers soil stained Wears the same disguise Over his disdain for the poor and trodden mass The beleagured hair in relentless hands The squirming bodies bruised and broken The trying cross of love despised They gathered the ignorant and stygmatized And while sun glinted on shiny coffles The wine cup is poured To feast the figment of a frazzled mind.