Soldiers’ feet, marching smartly in unison on level streets,
faltering into discord as they struggle up the steep incline.
Mobs roaring in waves quickly reduced to murmurs as the street narrows so only two or three may stand in ranks and come face to face with him.
A terrified child crying in heaving gasps as the bruised and battered man stumbles past.
Women wailing in great dirges of mourning:
professionals weaving their chords into an eerie tune;
true grievers spilling out their pain in inarticulate noise.
The rough, barely hewn tree bumping on the cobblestones then dragging through the dust, mixing heavy thumps with muted scraping.
A maul pounding a rusty spike through flesh into wood,
its steady beat torn by anguished screams.
Muffled sobs interspersed with mocking laughter,
an ill-matched duet of sadness and scorn.
Huge claps of thunder coupled with the sharp cracking of stones as graves are broken open.
No one hears the faltering beat of a burdened heart,
no one except his father.
A final cry – the coda … yet also the overture.
