They must have been sorely missing their friend
by the fiftieth day.
True, he surprised them all
walking alongside them and
into rooms through closed doors
in those first days.
Dead but not dead,
alive but somehow not.
They must have spent time
in other rooms,
wondering “What do we do now?
How do we do now?”
And only doubting in the presence of each other
whether This Thing was going to work,
or indeed, had ever even happened.
Then that fiftieth day with cold fire came.
Men, women, all lovers of the path,
sang the Only Song in the Only Language,
loud enough to ring through centuries.
Ah, for that freezing hot clarity
to burn away the doubts that dwell in my own rooms,
murmuring in a language I do not know.