It is the hole of pain
Of illness calling forth
A filling, a seamless rescue
From all your friendly prayers—
And loyal companions feasting
On your grace. A special melody
For the soul, a hand to god.
Inside the physiology of hope,
Inside the fluorescent hours of hymn
Tracing the auras, your hands
Clasp the invisible bloodless cancers
Tumors wrapped around the heart
You tremble and fix the open wounds.
It is in your fingers, the dance
Of meditation—
Eyes open, prayers flared
Dreams woven into your success
And solidarity cries
A miracle
A true and utter healing
Of belief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem