You will have a son,
the angel declared, and he will make ready those who wait for the Lord. He will
prepare the way – and the way is down. He will grow strong in the hill country,
his spirit nurtured by knowing he is special, longed for, a gift from God; and
trained, like a shade-giving plant, in that City – that place – of Refuge;
strong and true enough to walk away, to take the path down
down, into the
wilderness
down, from the hills
into the place where
the earth
falls
into
its
lowest
point
to a place where
the
world
itself
is thin
where east slides
past west
and the future
by the
past
down
down, as the hearts
of parents
turn
to their children
the wise to the
innocent,
the strong to the weak
down, as those who
have followed
their own counsel
in their own strength
return
to one another.
Down the precipice,
on ibex hooves:
preparing the way,
marking the path
for the one who will
come after him,
who will come down
from high above…
down,
into the lifeless
place,
the light-less place…
I cannot see it, says
the old man.
I have no words to
carry such a thing.
The words?
You’ll
find the words,
in time.
Until you do,
you’ll
find no other.
One entrusted with
the words of God,
dumb-struck:
the first signpost –
turn here! –
on
the way
down
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