My Grey

The virtuous man strikes again,
Spreading his word on the beggar’s tomb;
White and unstained is his robe,
Blessed by the gods of the worthy land;
The right, the right is what he does
To bring the vagabond home.

Here comes the shadow, malevolent and black,
Engulfing passages that once were free;
Withering flowers that earlier smiled
Gather their tears to water the seeds
That fell from their dry wombs;
Curses, curses under their breath!

A shrouded figure sitting in the dark
Lifts his head and smiles a naughty smile
That makes a virgin dance in the rain;
He trips her with his lanky staff,
Only to help her get up again;
He plays a magic harp that awakens
The dead from their deepest sleep,
And burns their ashes to the ground,
To make them rise from the flames;
His healing touch mends a broken heart,
And then, bruises it afresh,
To caress it with love renewed.

A bringer of tidings- good or bad?
A cursed blessing or a blessed curse?
The smoky rider of the unknown he is,
The mystical alien from a planet unseen;
A saint, a fiend, a hero, a villain,
My grey, my grey, O my grey he is!