Ezekiel's Lost Call

Our bones are dry.

They grow brittle and break.

Arid winds blow through us,

Forbidding love,

Stripping us of our very flesh,

Leaving us without breath or life.

We are made a desert,

And become dust.

When will we be named as chosen,

And promised a homeland?

We too are a vast multitude,

Waiting in our graves,

Waiting for the prophet to call us,

To join bone to bone,

To call forth flesh and bless it,

To awaken flesh with breath,

Drawn from the four winds,

To breathe into us life giving spirit,

So that we may know the one who formed us.

But what if the prophet doesn't heed the call?

Will forty years become eternity?

We must listen to the wind,

As it howls around us,

Hungry and rough,

For beneath those empty echoes,

Within the chaotic cries,

The call remains.

For any who would hear may become prophet.

We needn't wait.

Our graves stand open now,

If we will but step out of them.

Our bones are covered with flesh already,

We need only bless it.

We are the four winds,

Breathing life into the barren wilderness that surrounds us.

Our dust is sacred soil,

And our desert a homeland overflowing.

Behold.