Schizo’zekiel flops upon the ground in catatonic silence
or he howls with animal fury
that the end – the end
the end has come upon us all.
The throbbing veins in his shaved and scarred temple
look ready to burst with blood,
blood, oh God! so much blood!
The city’s on fire, the city’s trampled under foot
the city’s full of blood.
Schizo’zekiel, that sorry son of man,
cannot weep the loss of his eye’s delight.
He cannot eat the mourner’s bread.
His tears have all been spent
on the death of that great city.
Oh, Lord God!
He’s a sign to us all, yes a symbol
of all that we cannot say.