In the placid atmosphere of the end of night as it awaits the coming of dawn:
In the shadow of the sycamore in whose branches your grandfathers perished:
In the light of the angel wings of the messengers from a God I do not know:
In the lingering chill of glory built upon the decaying flesh of those whom I call my brother:
I wait for you;

-blistered: breathing labored from an ascent of centuries;

-bruised and bloody carriers of repressed truths of equal gore;

in my own repulsive stillness and I

beg your forgiveness for the blood which swells my veins.