Achan’s Curse

My father’s sins of yore

Are knocking on my door

A pounding I abhor

They often visit me

Garments, gold and silver

Are buried ‘neath my tent

Better than the closet

But they are seen by you


My hair colored silver

There’s no time to lament

I’ve no heart for regret

My passions are askew

My youth, my golden dreams

I buried them as well

Deep as the summer’s grave

I’ve placed myself within

Fine Garments without seams

I donned them when I fell

The bed of passion craved

A shallow buried sin

Consumed by arrogance

I taunted recompense

But my son’s innocence…

Please save my son from me