I see them move across an alien land;
their names are many and their gaze is straight.
They walk because they have no place to stand.
Behind them lies a closed and burning gate.
They’ve seen their fill of leprosy and gall;
their armour gleams with molten silent light.
The eye blinks, and they are not there at all,
swallowed by the blind trickery of night.
But dawn breaks, and they’re closer now by half;
mute constellations circle round their heads.
The sword, the cup, the coin and the staff
shine on their flesh in emeralds and reds.
Inexorable, they stalk beside my dream,
not living, no, nor dead, but getting near,
convincing of a long-forgotten theme
of miracles of innocence; and fear.
Tomorrow morning they may well arrive
with tears of flame outside my kitchen door;
proud men, and women too, who cannot thrive
without hospitality from my threshing floor.
Their names are Rahim, Irina and Sylhet,
Rohanna, Eva, and one who bears no sign
And I must welcome them, and not forget
That they too are the Human Form Divine.
