by Nick Gisburne
The Sisters of the Shrine exhaust their pills
Their flesh soon blisters, bursting, like the Domes
Disease and death awaits them in these hills
Convulsing victims, choking in their homes
The jewelled Sacred Cities shine no more
Defences smashed to atoms, worthless, dead
The skies grow darker; poisons swirl and pour
And, where they touch it, life has burned or bled
The Matron of the Order stands to speak
She clutches at the handle of her cane
And curses all the lies which leave men weak
Her scorn is thick with vitriol, profane
“Our god has rained destruction on mankind
Our hopes, our dreams, our faith, were always blind”
