Iain Fletcher
The Crucifixion of Simon the Cyrenian
And among the Basilideans is it held that, in the place of the Master, Simon of Cyrene suffered.
Your blue lips crack into a clouded message :
You tell them you are black, a humble man;
You cannot talk their cold and goblin tongue,
Your horned feet stuttering on the eye-shafted track.
What divine order of confusion, Simon,
Has grown this tree on your derided back?
The lying muslin of a dream is hung
And who shall now- undream the laughing murderous stage.
Your robe torn from you lightly as a leaf
Dissolves in true tears your false mother's grief;
Keeping the silence of your God, though still
Your human cry ring dissolutely shrill
Their ears hear nothing, though the dying thief
Have his sharp pardon on the mocking hill.
Page(s) 25
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