Under The Cross Of Spartacus Poem by Sayed Gouda

They crucified him at dawn.
Before sunrise,
his soul was fluttering among the clouds.
They left him days and days,
an example
to revolutionaries.

Every day at noon,
on our way to lunch,
we see him crucified.
A year passed,
yet, his blood is still dripping.
Every day, a dropp of blood trickles in the sand
in thunderous silence.

Every day at noon,
with a loaf of bread,
we hurry towards our shackles
at the labour site
in the mountain of slaves.
We look up at him;
we might see humiliation in his eyes
so we may know we have survived
a severe hardship.
We see him looking from up high at us,
smiling,
victory laughs
in the twinkle of his tear,
as though
he had never died,
nor was he crucified,
as though
it were us on the cross,
tortured
by our humility
and tortured
by his… smile!

7 January 2008