To the Saints Who Have Suffered Well

To those who have come before;

whose bodies no longer have warmth.

Can you tell the testimony of the old?

The one about the cross you bore in bold;

How did you suffer?

Was it arrows and spears;

Was it words from friends so near?

Did your back stiffen from the cold?

What created these legends to be told?

Teach me, O brethren, your ways,

there must be some secret told when you died.

If not, how can I spend my days;

I wish to be purified not petrified.

Suffering is a melancholic mistress;

I must dance with her embrace.

Novelty, the sweet perfume upon her neck;

shining with diamonds of glistening pain.

Harken to her call, it is my name.

I have heard the stories of your blights;

how did you spend your nights?

In cages of steel or in cages of glass?

I gaze by these bars for help, that is what I ask.

The taste will not be sweet but citrus.

I do not want this life to be waste;

Prepare for not this one but the next.

So I will read of your deeds from what has been said;

to gain wisdom, I must walk with the democracy of dead.