In the Thirteenth
by Elisabeth Pruitt
In the thirteenth hour of Madrugada,
That place where men lose their souls,
There lies in wait a beast of atrophy,
The fiend within us all.
In the thirteenth month of civilization's
Year, time is frozen as a mid-winter pond
And a sharp wind extinguishes the flame
Of reason, the saint within us all.
In the thirteenth season of responsibility,
All which lived dies.
The new dogma is strife, and
Violence the new deity.
That which was once only an ephemeral wisp
Of thought, a visceral tremor of desire, is
Suddenly the ordinary.
Sanity is a word for fools and cowards.
Pain and destruction are praiseworthy.
In the thirteenth hour of Madrugada,
That place where men lose their souls,
There lies in wait a beast of blood,
There lies in wait our deepest selves.
exact date unknown - late 1970s or early 1980s
editor's note: "madrugada" means "dawn" in spanish, though there appear
to be uses in which it means "the late hours." hence, this poem seems
thematically related to the other poems of this time, such as
"return", in which sunlight appears as an
evil influence that destroys emotions and ideals.
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