He weeps, the Centurion, for all he could not see......

and when, too late, he realized his error.


I weep too, for these many years later, 

my blindness is just as brutal.


I like he am covered in the froth and fleck of the blood

of the forgotten and maligned, those left to die

alone, affliction branding their spirit

with the hot poker of chance, 

the salt on their wounds our contempt, 

the vinegar our tuned backs, 

and their final desolation our collective murmured condemnation.


We can only hope our mingled tears will wash us, 

if not free and clean, 

at the least fresh enough for new beginnings.

Where else is there to turn but back upon ourselves, 

hearts broken open with remorse

and softened with humility.


Weep then, dear Centurion, 

and I will comfort you, 

and you me.


In tears we gather strength.......

......and soldier on.