Puer natus est nobis
My Latin is a little rusty
Where rust never formed
Not a dead language
Just parked in some corners
Designed to force
The less-than-catholic
Into translation frocks
Where we uninitiated
Wear a temporary collar
to pretend we are moved
By such erudition
I had my own reason
To leave my church
Yet some still cling to theirs
To spray the world
With their Roman candles
Creating flame spewed
Over the rest of us
To grow the weeds
That should have been sprayed
Sparked centuries ago
Filled with hate and stakes
For refuseniks of accepted lies
Barry G. Wick
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