Dreams by Nurture Waratah

Image by George Hodan

Dreams

I dream.
I dream of his face.
I dream of the blood
That trickled in his eyes.
I dream of the crowd,
The way they cried
For his destruction.
I dream of my own
Reluctance to disagree
With the mob.
I dream.
I dream of my hands.
I dream of the bowl
That contains the water
Of my sins.
I never emptied that bowl.
My dreams are filled.
Filled with certainty.
His life was not the only
Life I washed away
That day.
My decision killed him.
I killed him.
My life is forfeit.
Perhaps also my soul.
Perhaps he will forgive.
It was all
Part of his Plan.
What choice, then, did I have?
Perhaps he will forgive.
My sleep is fitful now.
Never peaceful.
I am dying.
Remember me Lord,
As I remember you,
And forgive.

— Nurture Waratah



Categories: Poems

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