This is my home, my cell.
I am used to deprivation.
Sleeping among the rocks
by the river with the scorpions
and spiders in mid-winter
was hardly a suite in the palace.
No, it is not the discomfort.
Nor is it the constant threat that weighs
so heavily upon my chest
as if death itself were a thing to be feared.
I miss the sky, and the sun
that daily dissects it; and the wind
and the rain upon my cheeks.
Here, in my cell I hear only distantly
the calls of the birds,
and the occasional scurrying rat
is a poor substitute for the joy
of the darting lizard. Yes, I miss all these;
but I close my eyes and I feel myself
free again, with the voice of Yahweh
echoing once more through the valley
and inside my head.
My followers risk their own freedom
to bring me word of another,
the teacher from Galilee;
he who came to me that day
at the river. They repeat his stories,
and I feel the glow of hopefulness renewed,
this sad beauty that aches deep within.
I crave freedom.
My yearning is made more deep
and more painful
by the thought that the divine Spirit
may have begun a long-awaited work;
and I, John, called the Baptiser,
constrained by these bars and chains,
am unable to take part
in the new thing that God is doing.
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