jerusalem.

she walks the streets of jerusalem and all the men swallow the lumps in their throats and don't know where to look. she sways with the delicacy of a sapling in the breeze, her frame is shrouded in ocean blue cotton, and aspects of her figure drift in and out of view as the clothing shifts and forms around her. her hair is rebelliously short and infinitely black, she has eyes like a deer, big and round, possessing a beauty and light impossible for poets to capture. her long, tanned arms end in supple hands that hang near her narrow hips. she is impossibly beautiful, like a flower.

they drive the first nail straight through his wrist and he chews the inside of his mouth while two of his fingers stop working. the hill is littered with horrified onlookers and mostly staunch romans, a few of the younger ones looking a little pale and shaky. there's this tree off in the distance, and all its leaves are moving together, and the whispers are wandering over the city and up the hill. they hammer in the second one, and then move on to his feet, and the cross starts to take some of his weight, so he lets himself relax a little. after his feet are nailed on, one of the tougher soldiers takes an ugly looking little club and sets to work on his knees until they are visibly mangled and he's hanging from his bloodied wrists. and the crowd's looking really worried now, children are being led away blindfolded by wrinkled hands and women are fainting and wailing, whilst men set their jaws and harden their eyes. fractured legs jangling and stabbing with his wrists slowly burning, he starts to feel terribly guilty for all the fuss he's made. a few people hurl insults, apparently unmoved. he feels a little better after that.

she walks the streets of jerusalem and all the men's eyes pass over her without stirring except for those who've seen her before. people who recognise her are moved to stop and stare in dismay at the transformation. her hair is lank and greasy, it sticks to her head in matted clumps. her eyes are dull and devoid of interest, so incapable of recognition and glassily listless they might as well be blind. she shuffles uncertainly through the crowds and her clothes are creased and stained. her hands don't move and her hips don't sway. the wind cannot extract the poetry of her physique.

jesus bakes in the sun, pinned to the splintering cross and the women keep crying. he lifts his thorny head, and cocks his eyebrow at the distraught masses, gropes for gestures of consolation and finds himself at a loss. he does his best to speak through dry lips and parched tongue.

"guys, please. it's fine. it's really not as bad as it looks."