Lambing Season

by Elvira

He             hung upon                              a tree
born                            at Solstice, tales
swaddling                   per custom: white.
No       cry,
we’re told,                              at birth,
was heard,                              only
lowing                                     of the cow.

― 3 ―

Then the clouds                                       darken
rendering the “llantos”
shredding       veil in The temple
But He:

― 2 ―

Darkness,                          Darkness,        Blackness
crashing,                     as Neptune’s
His lowered gaze,             piercing

― 2 ―

the Lambing Season:                                was it cold
was it warm                as
Scrivners, old
to suit                         Modern Eyes.
Passed                         the Cup,
did                   He                   but
took                it
for to Gather Please.
the Wounds                     Bled,                            the Body
Tore                            by Rome’s
poisoned                    by
Senhedrens honied          lips      and      Blind Men’s

― 2 ―

And, now ―
the Blood                          partaken
to cleanse       all
Soul                                   Mistaken;
BLOOD                                                       for blood
WE                                                Not Forsaken


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