The restless crowd stood smirking
as another was strung up,
naked as the day he was born,
dribbling crimson urine and
squealing like an abattoir pig,
as a nameless connoisseur
hammered home hard,
three rusting spikes.

They watched for ages, as he hung
like Hallel meat, bleeding clean,
until the sun
looked away in darkness.
The dancing flies continued
dining and defecating in open wounds.

Some of the little children in that
chuckling crowd – whose
mothers would later wipe clean
of blood splats – learnt that day to
dance the same dance,
though not all, thank God;

others heard a different beat
tapped out on that instrument
of breathless-death,
finding a story of hope
within a story of despair,
discovering a saviour:
hanging, suffering, dying, there.