The wormhole , paradise, hauls its wave above the injured in my spirit. His soldiers, with their blistering certainty marching forward with their cleansed bodies, upright breasts, asses and protruding masculinities, look down and see before them a naked and lifeless child on the floor. God, they imagined, placed the infant there as sign, glint of light shining down on the divine churches golden base. A few cradled the dead child while others built a pyre at the foot of their Christ. They laid the eager body upon its cradle and declared , “We are yours!” and lit the brittle timber. Falling to their knees and repeating their mantra they watched their sacrifice melt. First the soft hair of the child curled up with the flames , then sparked by the heat it ruptured into ash. Then came the tender flesh covering the ears which melted like wax, dripping down into the flame it sizzled and popped and drooped to its loss. Then the skin on the palms of the hands and the heels of the
(The Weaver's Song)