No
James Sale
No graffiti in heaven;
No daubs of paint in paradise;
No need for stretch or exercise;
No food for thought or pointless dice;
No counting but the number seven.
No morning but then again no even;
No aeons save only in a trice;
No odds, perverse, or deeper still, vice;
No violence to entrance, entice;
No bread but bread born fully leaven.
No cloth that hands have worked, woven;
No spell or magic of bad surprise;
No falling, and no compromise;
No speaking, equivocating, lies;
No devil, demons, or feet sundered, cloven.
No sun and certainly no oven;
No moon or light’s heatless promises;
No nasty, then, indeed only the nice;
No doubt, no doubting Thomases;
Yes. No death. Never again forsaken.
