Above us, where span the lactescent arcades of the sky,
Where azure and pearl frame the cloud-swelling meadows on high,
The spirits of aether, whose voices once mingled in joy,
Are now heard to murmur, discouraged, to whisper and sigh,
And heed not the yearnings of men, neither Hebrew nor goy.
The glorious seraphs, their rainbow wings studded with eyes,
Reveal amblyopia, trachoma, cataracts, styes;
Those darlings the cherubs, each fluttering baby-cheeked head,
Precautions are taken befitting their miniscule size:
They’re kept now in lockdown, with nectar each morning in bed.
‘Midst heavenly hallways, sky-vaults and Miltonian malls,
The authors of psalms and magnificats now line the walls
And, dragging on ambrosial cigarettes, lean back and think –
Through travesties, majesties, how could this burlesque befall,
The crown of Creation, to send up this ungodly stink.
This -iel, that -ael, they gaze on each other with rue,
They know they’re the ones who should know, but know not, what to do.
And every so often in hope that’s no hope they look round;
The ultimate portal, in silhouette against the blue;
But from the main office, now dark, there comes nary a sound.
© 2020 Tony Longo