The preacher’s scroll unrolled, one soul:
When Buddha saw the woman taken in adultery he sighed with resignation.
Confucius tsk’d and looked away.
Krishna mused, ‘it must be her karma.’
Muhammad roared in ecstasy and grabbed the largest stone he could find …
And what of Jesus?
Or so, at least, the voice was raised.
I grabbed the sleeve of an absent friend, sought blessings for his laurel.
But as my hand stretched forth to make a fair exchange and just,
The robes fell empty on the floor.
‘I am not a conjuror,’ a still voice echoes.
‘I am not where you hope to pin me down.’
There is no-one in this dusty village, no-one at the gates.
Still, the fountain runs unnoticed.
Drip, drip, gush.
Who will mend this stream of sweet, sweet sorrow?
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