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Broken Buddha, wracked on the cross,

wept tears of grey and gold,

golden streams from shattered dreams,

grey spates from pain untold.

 

When the wind of change swept the tortured form,

the colours merged, provoking hate,

poison, rampant, bile and cant:

each primed to desecrate.

 

Hope died, strangled in beauty’s bed.

The hand giving peace had clenched.

Evil retrenched, what was good seemed dead,

death pervaded all men said

and the vast universe was wrenched,

 

so lies were truth, sanctity dross,

laws made to vilify,

and a gargoyle’s face, sterile embrace,

defiled each kiss, each sigh.

 

Enlightened Man, his pride in shreds,

a splintered spine and a ruptured will,

despaired at the price of a deformed Christ

and settled Satan’s bill.

 

© Keith Brindle 2025