I had looked forward
To a world, where
Light passes through
The heart of darkness
And melts the core of granite;
Every heartbeat is a blossom
That bids the other to come closer;
Every word is a balm in the ear;
Every creature a fire in winter.
The winter entered my heart,
As the Master lay in the tomb:
His miracles buried with my dreams.
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!
Golgotha trembled in dying hope
The heavens thundered in vengeance
The veil in the synagogue parted
And the tabernacle said, “Take and eat!”
Your body lay broken – and your spirit?
I am thirsty!
Where are the loaves of bread and the fish?
Where is the spring
Of living water?
Where, the Master?
Where is your kingdom?
I saw your surrender,
A candle-flame in a twister,
A swindler on the right, and
A swindler on the left,
One pitying and the other cursing,
Hope dying in the horizon, and
Terror gripping the soul.
The women kept vigil
With oil in their lamps.
The dawn shone on Golgotha
The heavens looked radiant
And light passed through the tombstone
Peter had not sold his dreams:
So he borrowed a net,
Went back to his trade;
Sweated the whole day
Breathing the salt-tang of the water,
Feeling heavier in the heart
With each casting of the net;
Until he cast it inward
And caught you:
An unbearable lightness within.
Between you and me glares
The mark of a lance.
Bury me deep
1. First of all, I’ve given up writing poems and fiction. Poetry and fiction demand too much of imagination and my imagination is killed. This poem was written more than ten years ago. I am putting it up now because of the Holy Week, the week that commemorates [celebrates, should I say?] the death of Jesus.
2. Survival today means playing games. I feel sickened by the games.
3. Thomas was one of the disciples of Jesus. He was the sceptic. He is the prototype of the perpetual sceptic.