From the circlet of thorns
we drifted, uncounted, unnamed,
not pain, not wound,
but the heart of a secret released.

The crown’s dark orchard
pressed us into being,
then let us fall
like fragments of an unseen psalm.

We were neither drop nor weight,
but a red listening,
the earth heard us before we touched
the stone— received as prayer.

And though we vanished,
our trace lingered,
a hush where matter
remembers eternity.