Who took his pulse? The man was dead,
how did infantrymen confirm his death,
or did they place him in a crypt to heal,
to recover from the worst punishment,
of excruciating measures, his pain
over time dissolved by execution,
killing the man in body, but his mind...
his mind overcame death itself by rest,
in solitude within a crypt, a cave,
silence heals wounds too crimson to bury,
perhaps the man had no pulse, no heartbeat,
understand the medicine of these times,
left alone, perhaps someone recovers,
sickness unto death, his resurrection,
everyone knows he died that day, don't they?
The man they call the son of God, worship
him as you do chocolate Easter bunnies,
even Santa Claus, Rudolph the Reindeer,
must you contrive to mock what you believe,
ask yourself if your faith could dare withstand
no longer celebrating without gifts,
we imagine his death, this man, each year,
as spring approaches, as rites we practice
simply to remember antiquity,
demonstrations of piety descend
excruciatingly from crucifix
and asphyxiation to exhaustion,
despite the fact he walked away from death.
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