Smooth and warm

the satin drape of darkness

spread around

the ancient Olive Tree

that like a hoary grand-sire

droops majestically, shadowed in the night,

as rumbling voices gradually

give way to silent

prayer, then

sleep.

–

The Sleepless, kneels,

His words a rote of darkness

pressed upon

His soul beneath the tree—

that like a gory prophecy—

looms unswervingly, darkest in the night.

An earnest voice in agony

head bent in silent

prayer so

deep.

–

And still they kneel

slumped inside the darkness,

splayed along,

beside the roots of trees,

drooling in their prayers,

sleeping soundly, deep into the night,

till His voice so graciously

wakes them from silent

prayer and

sleep.

–

Deeply there

the pangs of closing darkness

now begin.

The ancient One, beside a tree

who, like a hoary grandsire,

bears unflinchingly, the sin-press of the night.

Now rumbling voices violently

intrude upon the silent

prayer. No

sleep.

–

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