A fateful dance, and two heads lost. Herod, an old man,seeking solace in youth’s allures,blurred the line between desire and rule. He vowed a gift,and gave away himself.

John meanwhile, was in his cell far from the feast, for saying out loud, what all suppressed:No man—not king nor common fool—may grasp what burnsto have,and in the seizing consumes.

And now the dread climaxof the sensuous dance’s sway: the blood uncoiling, the head upon a tray.

In far-off Galilee, Jesus,seeing dark clouds,foreshadowing his fate,offered words whichpoured hope, like oil,on jagged wounds of griefto John’s disciples now scattered,their head struck down.

To strengthen hope, he shared his breadin a different kind of feast.No numb of excess,Just a crumb for eachto savour:it was enough.

And afterwards, he walked between two shores, where lust and death and bloodhad churned the sea to rage.

The boat is foundering;he comes to us:the master of the storm.

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