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danke Jan

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He lay beneath the silent ground, Where winds spoke soft and low, The moss had claimed his resting place, The earth had let him go. His hands were folded on his chest, His eyes like emptied skies, No breath disturbed the hush of death, No spark lit up his eyes. The village wept, the candles burned, The bell tolled one last time, They left him there, with whispered prayers, And dirt and dust and rhyme. But on the third and quiet night, A stirring shook the trees, The stars blinked twice, the moon took flight, And trembled on the breeze. A gasp—a crack—a reaching hand— Broke through the stony crust, He rose not like a ghost in white, But burning through the dust. His skin was cold, his eyes were flame, His voice a thundered hush, The grave had tried to keep his name, But he returned to hush. No one could say what held him down, Or why he came once more, But in his step was something vast— A knowledge, dark and sore. He spoke not much, but when he did, The silence bowed its head, And every word he uttered seemed To wake the long-lost dead. Some say he walked into the sea, Some say he turned to light, But all agree—he rose again, And vanished in the night.