He wore the robe, scarlet, blood-colored, crimson,
And gold, the hue of brilliant sunlight,
Emblazoned with the Black Madonna.
He spoke black words to the Leninists,
Words a good man could understand,
Words a man-child could understand,
And grow with hope in a chilled child-world,
Bleak emptiness filled with secret police,
Watching, their hope to choke hope in 1984.
He knew not fear. They quoted his words
Afterward in the bedroom and the kitchen,
Recalled his face, intelligent, comely, cheerful,
His stature, erect, tall, before them, a beacon,
Even in their dreams, he came to them,
Instilling dignity and grace, in the midst of meanness.

He never heeded the warnings, direct, sincere.

And then he was gone - their lives again voids.
They searched everywhere for his smile, grin even,
Hoping against all odds, they knew it was finished.

In the storm, the river produced his mutilated form,
In tattered martyred gold and scarlet,
Minus the Virgin presence.
The waters vomited forth proof of man's inherent ignorance.