I weep for thee;
Tied to the stake
Beside the burning flames
And heavy metal pots.
I weep for thee;
Soon to be offered
As a betoken of our worship
To the Creator.
Here comes thy crucifixion,
Which takes not thy soul
But that which is flesh in thee–
For thy soul, is incapable of sniffing.
I look away,
Now that the blood–thirsty knife
Approaches thy neck;
Away, from the sight of thy juicy blood
Spilling out
Like the warm springs of hometown;
From the innocence in thy pupils
And their shutting,
Gradually, like the transition
From the bright day to dark nightfall.
Our mothers –in festive glee –
Shall make spicy broth
And we shall dip and chew –
Ourselves and neighbors too.
But you need not worry
For you died in holiness
And your blood was spilled
While your soul sailed on a course divine.
I weep not –shorn of delight
And filled with envy –
For I wish I were slain like thee,
On a path of righteous.
