"the exile" (Jan 2002)

Who would've thought we'd see such a dawn, the blind of the scorch from the west?
What screeching sorrow muffles to the ear, a song in the silence of its rest,
When clenched mouth doth sour, and tongue the driest pallet doth taste,
Where all touch is lost and all pain is felt, no hand to hold, no hand.
Why, my Father, endure this stench of time? -- your Spirit knows.
How long will you hide your face?