Incense floats on

purple raiment and

fish breezes.

Monks chant

psalms of lament.

Sombre days stretch into

hair-shirt nights.

Easter is a

Resurrection away.

But first, the carnival

red with desire,

laughter day,

dances and sings its way

across the cobblestones.

Wild-winged streamers

caught by March winds,

flung backwards and up,

up, up to the Phoenix

whale-road, heading

straight for the sun.

But they cannot

fly forever and

soon the ashes flutter down,

down, down from above,

until they settle on

our foreheads,

thumbed by the morning

of the purple rain.