Hell’s Architects

Paradise knows not doors or windows

Soft and screaming
we escape
from our conception
a world to shape.
Cotton, wood or clay
are made
for our protection
drier shade.
Faithful and fearless
we weren’t born
from heaven’s womb
when were we torn.
In stonewalled cells
our souls be thrust
that devils’ will
perform we must.
Light that enters
through glass stained
only lights the devils’ chains.
Gazing toward high roofs’ timbers
thinking, feeling thoughts remembered
Paradise on earth
would show
that love no
doors or windows knows.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..