In a cold breeze, of autumn , where death and life wrestle, I think of divinity.
In a thought, regarding Saints ,
And how their names are upon restaurants, pharmacies, cities...
Yet, we use those names in ignorance, of what they bear. And of the culture behind them.
We are heedless when we utter your names
And your names are in almost every place,
We are heedful when we pursue our aims
And our aims may kill us in every pace.
On a flying wing I ponder your thought
And stretch your depths into the heights of skies
Where your superhuman souls rest and float
Free of deceitful acts and free of lies.
Around your perfect lines cries the calm mirth
And joyfully basks with rot far under,
As if the restless ever spinning earth
Has found a place to rest and wonder.
In an autumn breeze I smell Death and I
Gaze at vernal Life with my inner eye.