O fangéd Fate!
What new terrors bring thee?
What sceptre shall accost me in my travels?
What cat shall rend and devour?
It is an apparition of God with razor
claws and teeth,
A faceless drinker of Passion,
Yes Passion, which burns with scalding blood,
Blood which sustains the soul
And thee, O fangéd Fate!
Thou bloody playwright!
Cattle players on a slaughterhouse stage,
We graze on thy dreams,
Thy grasses and fruits
To fatten ourselves, entrails stuffed with hope,
The primal drama of our naked affections.
Thou open our veins from time to time
To whet thy craving for the harvest
Of Death, thy herdsman, thy chef.
Such refined taste thou have, O Fate,
For thou knows
The most savory dish is marinated in tears.
George Chadderdon © 1994