painting by Hans Holbein the Younger

Still Lies The Night

Mourn deeply dredged tomb,
Bored tenderly against scruffy hill.
Silent as a trembling soul...
Listening for the slightest sound...
Breathless...in fearful anticipation.

I see you there.

Tattered and torn.
Flesh from bone.
Jumbled mass of...
grief.

I saw you there.

Desperate,
Heaving,
Weeping.
Oh my...that cry...
"Forsaken!"

I watched that last wretched tear
Tumble over flesh
Now crusted like burned ash.
I had to let it fall
Like a drifting leaf in the fury.

I had to let you go.

In your terror
I was relieved
You could not see...
my heart.
Destitute as parched desert,
Barren as baked sand,
Frothing with pure rage
Like fomented waters
Cascading through dying souls
In a mindless storm...

Then...my heart...
stopped.

It was finished.

The rage...is dead.

I am still.
I am healed.
Still lies the night.

I will kiss the wounds,
Like a dog consoling her wounded master.
My lips quiver against your broken lips.

My hands tremble over the shattered carcass,
Like a paralyzed hand
Trembling
Reaching,
Grasping.

I kiss each wound
And treasure each bruise.

Rest now my child.
I am healed.
I am whole.
Tomorrows light...
Will sizzle.

I am still.
Your seat waits you.

For passover friends.

xtnyoda shalomed