They are burning effigies, it’s that time of the season,
Ones in flesh and bones are hatching crimes of the season.
Bandits from the barrens decree beheading of the infidel,
And savour blinkered women over the wine of the season.
Mourners of the butchered light up candles in memoriam,
You who forgive the monsters, are the shrine of the season.
Trains howl and chatter past the cottage by the railways,
One of those once carried her to the slime of the season.
Uma, you have planted roses in upturned vessels of liquor,
Those buds will stink and welter in the prime of the season.