We lay in our centuries,
dust-dulled, pressed flat by sandals,
the slow commerce of days.

Then the murmur rose,
feet, voices, a stirring weight
like a storm before it breaks.

He came among them.
The crowd swelled, quickened,
a tide carrying one figure.

The burden bent him.
The beam drew him down
and we received his body.

His cheek touched our dust,
his blood found our cracks,
and for a breath we bore him.

We did not speak;
we only held, lifted,
gave back what we could.

When he rose,
and the press of voices moved on.
We felt the emptiness of his leaving.

The centuries closed again,
yet still we carry
the weight that was more than weight.