FLICKERING CANDLE

Night after night

lines of flickering candles

trace like moles the winding catacombs.

All silent, the air gone thin,

Roman soldiers overhead,

eyes closed, muttering dreams,

their glinting spears and blades

can turn any whisper

from heaven or earth

to blood.

In the arena, not a patch of green,

only a pitiless red sun, the roar

of tigers, lions.

From the world’s far corners

we tred these catacombs together,

facing the same direction.

We tire, stumble, rise again,

a ceaseless procession.

The weary find on either side

a niche carved from white chalk.

Good brother, we say,

earthly trek over,

now at rest.

Though human and afraid,

we know our blood

irrigates.

A seed set deep

shall rise, branch and trunk

thriving, in its shade

sleeping birds.

Through crumbling soil,

we hack the pathways to our cells,

join hands for praiseful song,

cut in stone these loaves and fish,

the names, the years, the dead.

We paint the floor

with grapes and olive trees,

the white dove flying.

From this gloom,

chill, subterranean,

we ascend, one flame

and another.