Palimpsest
Writing upon the scroll,
year after year
day after day
the monk lives for the painted work
He prays and draws
He prays and writes
Eloquent brushstrokes
fall like soldiers into place.
Who can say that
not an inch beneath them
lies an army of letters
too vulgar for the eye to see
too forbidden for the soul to taste.
Lost in his set serenity, the monk
takes no heed of the bewailing clamour
the ships, the heathen helmets and the crowd.
Lost in his world he covers
the threatening set of words,
ignoring that in seconds
he'll be a hidden palimpsest
a human palimpsest
beneath
a crust of curdled blood.
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