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Easter Morning

Crimson splatters on white robes,

protein and plasma: essence of life,

thick with the stench of death.

Violence touches his skin, his face.

Not washing away the pain,

he is stained.

Chest open,

arm extended,

gazing upward,

he looks for invisible grace –

a shaft of mercy

to enter stained glass,

Tragedy not erased

but held in

broken resurrection.

in memory of the Sri Lanka masssacre on Easter Sunday 2019

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