Faster than Peter,
past acacia and carob,
I ran to the tomb

We sang, we danced,
embraced and wept,
jumped up and down, cried out

Our voices echoed:
the chamber there was empty
past the low doorway

Alone in the damp,
except for our friend’s garments;
his scent was still there

I ran past Mary,
leaving the rich man’s garden;
Arimathean

sweet hawthorn kindled
the fires of Golgotha,
from the day before

Past olive, almond,
apricot, pine, turpentine,
I ran to tell them

© Carlos Chagall, Easter Sunday, 2013