They lie there on wide stone plinths,
Barely-there breath ghosting past
Their lips, suffocating white fog curling,
Pulling at their feet. And they are clothed
In long, bleached robes that fall past their
Ankles, stopping before pure silver sandals
But still draping over the sides of the offering
Table, swaying in an invisible wind. And their
Pale, pallid hands, delicate in the mist, are suspended
Above them, hanging weakly in the thick air.
They are the innocents, they are the Blessed.