It was bloodstained.

Smeared with women’s tears;

A little tattered from the falls’

One shoulder slightly threadbare,

From the burden he had hauled.

It probably was made in Rome,

The fibres not as coarse

As those, of the local looms;

Perhaps a gift from that young officer,

He had once showed kindness to?

Some people felt it held miraculous powers;

Scrambling just to touch the hem,

Searching for some magic in the treads.

Days ago… he was proclaimed as king, as he rode in through the gates;

Hours ago…the same people were calling for his death.

 

So the soldiers cast their dice –

And divided up the spoils;-

They were tired, from the long and trying day,

Some of the crowd had started to disperse, so they found time to relax,

Unconcerned about those crucified, as their lives slowly ebbed away.

 

© Fingleton (Août 2016) (Löst Viking)
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