13/05/2022
THE CANDIDATE
She has a fine halo
And a cruel crown of thorns
Two bumps on her head
That are possibly horns
There are wings on her back
And chains on her feet
In one hand some stones
In the other is wheat
There's hope in her words
And dread in her soul
She floats on a cloud
And sinks in a hole
With life to be loved
And plans to be made
And death to be faced
In a beautiful glade.