The tall cypresses mark the place, their shadows the guardians of the grave, at the edge of the lake.

There, I have come, from the other shore, alone, as befits a pilgrimage.

I know the gate will be open, for today is the day, when his disciples come to celebrate the Master.

Across the sacred threshold, I will slowly approach his altar, knowing you will be there, kneeling.

And my shadow will touch yours, so lightly the angels won’t notice.

Image: Michael Sowa, Böcklin’s Toteninsel