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
