Not heeding brute reality, nor matter’s bane
I kneel at the door of heaven, a suppliant,
Transcribing words of wisdom, like the rain
On wild flowers; the garden’s hierophant:
Anointed, a habit on my body’s beauty
I lie in the threshold of my tryst with God -
The first flight from earth being my duty
Becoming His perfect mean and golden rod,
I cool my heels in a dank, dark cell
Where half-light becomes my element
God’s plenty in motes, with the music of the bell
A love feast of the penitent.
I rise on wings of thankfulness and praise,
Sing out in silence the glory of His ways.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem