Maybe It Isn’t Him.
“I found your body stilettoed from behind,
It would have been much harder otherwise
I pull the blade out terrified and wipe
Its gold handle on my breast and side
Lord, I cry, maybe it isn’t him,
Maybe it’s his earthen shape
Maybe the blood is not actual blood
Maybe his soul is singing across the plain.
Maybe the birds are listening to his song,
And that’s why over the plain they are all
Silent, maybe they too are made of clay
And their one use is magical.
Maybe it is death barely now arrived
That hunts the mystery of your sacred being
After whose form we were made,
Maybe the eternal bird is singing.”
From : After the Raising of Lazarus, Trans, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin. South Woard 2005.