The dead are piling up at the low end of the scale.
Weighed down the golden cups forged to perfection in the fires of the Book of Revelation.
The soldiers are collecting their pay under the scorched mangroves.
A mother is carrying her dead child in empty arms.
A weaver in Benares is speaking day and night to his god, without a reply.
Under densely packed snow in the woods outside Kiruna: a field mouse like Lazarus in his grave.
Around the lean neck of the undertaker's daughter, the delicate weight of a golden cross on a chain.
On an afternoon in the same room the widower with a bent head closes his eyes.
In a church in El Paso a ninety three year old preacher is quoting Jesus to the multitudes, and some feel their burdens lifted.