By Yasen Vedrin
(The Rise of the Fall)
The failure rests in Judas’ silver purse.
The sentence – within Pilate’s washing bowl.
And every ugly, calculated curse
Wears Holy Grace to mask its dirty soul.
The business goes on quietly and well.
There are as many traders as you please,
Even when beggars inside sighs must dwell
For small coins from the dressed-up corpse to tease.
No one will scare them with a whip of cords.
The stalls are piled up, endless in their line…
And silver pieces, like the Blood of Lords,
Ring with their furious pirouette divine.
Foul is the swamp, filled up and overflowing,
Adorned with labels like an "Eden" space.
A class, so gospel-wealthy in their showing,
Foresees their God from fatness in its place…
In an idyll, beloved by the crowd,
Both shepherds and the flocks are blessed and free.
But in the realm where fast cash makes them proud,
The Evil bodeful shapes the catastrophe.
Both dogma and doctrine clank with heavy chains.
From pulpits, moldy words begin to fall.
The true sin stays where Mary Magdalene reigns,
And not inside that Judas' gut and all…
Christ’s people, cast away with exiled fate,
Wander their hell in sackcloth, cold and sad.
The failure rests in Judas’ silver purse.
The sentence – within Pilate’s washing bowl.
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