Bonds are blessings to us, chains
like choicest fruits; we have glutted
our souls and our body, yes, feasted
on fruitless attempts of these men
to subdue us. We love watching them
try. We love
the eyes of this man through whom
we watch; we have strengthened
his arms; the sinews of his thighs
strain sublimely as a horse’s legs.
This and more have we done
for him. We wait
for nothing, our minds far
too full from the bliss of these mountains,
this moment, these bleeding hands
through which we have conquered, the nose
by which we know the sharp air
and breathe. The dust
and water of this humble place are good and true.
We run them through ten feeling fingers.
We rub sand and press silt
into our temples and into our neck till
the old man’s raw, is raw
and nearly blind. Rumors
have reached his ears,
by which we hear.
the Son of David’s coming.
The man shudders as we think
of Hell, that bodiless
the Son will surely send us home to.
we pray He has some mercy on us