There was not a lot of blood,
just a husk, thin and gaunt
as an impoverished orphan.

We dug a hole in the field, and left
his stiff-limbed shell inside
weighed down by eternal hunger.

There was no myrrh or oils.
No angels devoured our guilt
singing of feasts beyond.

Unable to find our own voices,
we lifted spoons in silence
burying ourselves in victual.

I rose in the morning
tilling the loss with my quill,
feeding his barren memory.



Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Aeguary, in the year 630 AF.