Slowly, slowly, slowly
Christ comes through the garden,
speaking to the sacred trees -
the trees.
Their branches bear his Light without harm.
Slowly, slowly, slowly
Christ rises on the cornfields.
“It's only the harvest moon,
the moon”.
The disciple turns over in his sleep and murmurs
“my regret”.
The disciple will awaken
when he knows history.
But slowly, slowly, slowly
the Lord of history
weeps into the fire.
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