The thorns woven to your head are nothing
Like the emptiness loosening your mind
From the terse mountains where you served your time
Seeking the hearth in the loneliness of things.
Then that slow glimpse of three faces concresced
In a circle of infinitely gentle gaze
Trusting each thing out of air into form,
Showed you belong to this first tenderness.
You earth divine flame in a young man’s frame.
Things rush your senses offering their essence.
Now the earth clenches against you, cold and closed
In a yard forsaken by every name.
On crucifixion duty, bored with routine
The soldiers start mocking and crown you king.