He stands outside looking in. He folds his arms over each other, narrows his eyes, and wrinkles up his forehead under his hair dripping wet. He’s been in the field working. All day. He’s tanned and dirty, but nothing can cover up his markings of devotion, yet there he is standing outside hostile and seething.
Inside no one stands. Only frenzy resides there. I imagine those inside with arms extended, eyes wildly alive, while their entire bodies, their senses, immerse themselves in delight bordering on indulgence. One, in particular, disheveled and dirty but clothed in regal robes, looks strangely out of place. Nothing, it would seem, can hide his scarred-over wounds of unfaithfulness, but there he is inside dancing around and delighted.