an old oliveoil press rusting at the bottom of a sandy garden
in his occupied territory.
man lying prostrate,
on the soil.
about a weight, a burden, something.
we disciples could not hear clearly,
what with all the muffled explosions
this man, this man, he screamed out ‘NOT AS I WILL BUT AS YOU WILL FATHER!’.
but there was no other man there, no father, nothing.
Was this man drunk?
I do not think so.
But he may have drunk some wine
pause in the battle, to hear the cock crow
faraway strange: sunset, not sunrise.
but roosters had been eaten, long ago
what with the siege and the starvation and whatnot.
I don't know. .