To St. Philomena

There was a kind
Of antique resplendence
And purity of crystals.
There was a straight line
Of bloody death,
Drawn from one page
To another and
Then to another;
In that book of
prodigal obscurity
And burial.
There was death everywhere.
There were remains
Of unleashed infernos
In that ancient air.
But you rose,
From a deep slumber,
Into a new dawn
Impenetrable by water, salt and arrows;
Dividing the time into many equal parts
With your tender fingers.