Is just a your pain sprinkled across the face of the earth
Final testimonies of Hypostases that no gnostic reading could capture
Before drowning under an avalanche of self made face concepts
And this urge to create in an image born in you and self moved
Through the winds and hues in all perceived cold and warm colours
Opened for everything that comes on a bait of St. Bartholomeus’s skin
Or a seam of St. Elijah’s red gown when he dropped it to his successor
As he was soaring up to the sky
We too human are far from being saints
But I can feel I create am created in your image
The body of words I gladly cast to whoever is willing to eat
As the body no longer belongs to me
Another stunning poem Miroslava...very few have such vivid metaphors and descriptions as you. :)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Those who dare eat the words written in books of angels will endure what wonders tortures as they spin silken strands completing amazing gift webs of life.