Once I dreamt I was a cross
A lonely cross, leaning on a hillside
Born from an olive tree
There came a march towards me
And a man's soul was woven onto me, and splinters
And I, a lonely cross, drenched in spit and sweat and blood
The body astray but the spirit stains
A lonely cross soaking in splinters spit sweat blood and rain
When I dry my roots will be cut
Will I return to where I came?
Do I have a soul?
Or am I just firewood not yet aflame?