Hung Gospel



The charms do not fly on earth
and heaven is a golden tile, corroded,
washed by the azure sea, salty tears of men who said,
“I love you God, but you promised riches that glitter
only weakly, against the tireless sun on earth.”
          Heaven refracts a different sky.



No, here, the heavens are a blanket of blue, stench-ed
      by the deeds on a land: once-garden, removed, now, dull
      rubbish. Fed birds sing discordantly their happy morning song
      for lilacs that cannot wake;
      the wind caresses the crumpled lilies
      who sing hallelujah only for men
      who gripped onto those flowers,
      day and night, looking for a whisper:
      they hear one, and they say it is a broken hallelujah.

What stirs me is not the marching wars of Israel,
      walking across rotten bodies,
      the sour carcasses of men, once me, like me,
      lying around. The majesty of the Lord
      carries a bloodied scent. I brood on the
      righteous majesty of the Lord but lilies don’t grow
      on dry stones of teachings.



I try to live to the Word --

yet, at heart, all rage is an attempt to engage
a God, unsimplified; a reddened source of fire,
hung gospel, burns hard,
into fertilizing ashes for an Eden, anew: gold is its accessory,
not its tender skin.


About The Author

Mitt Ann is a poet based in Singapore. His works can be found on