Chapter 1
The stone chiseled to form me,
Gleams in the sun, rigid and stiff,
My mother called out while at sea,
To my father, to call me Abiff.
My childhood was counted in Tyre,
Her harbors, both blessed and deep,
Sailors braving storms dark and dire,
Brought great news to my keep.
That square and level were needed,
At Jerusalem’s bright golden gate.
For Solomon’s prayer was heeded,
When I measured the pieces of eight.
A word which I carried with me,
Apprentices – all eager and strong.
But blindfolded eyes cannot see,
And hoodwinked necks are wrong.
All three of them, in secret combination,
United in ignorance, prejudice and greed,
Their ignorance, passed down to their seed,
That poured on the altar a deadly oblation.
The sun that was a witness to my death,
Done with hammer, square and axe,
My blood fed the roots and stem of acacia,
My hands, crowned the temple of Asia,
My words counted the coins of the tax,
My lungs brought incense to my breath.
In Tyre’s bright towers of marble,
My mother the truth will always shun.
Her seed remains perpetually fertile,
Because I remain the Widow’s Son.
