Shudder

Like you, Rilke, we want to shudder in our God
As in a song, leaving much before our due parting
Chasing its long shadows much before the sunset
In the smell of water in the temple, of old flowers
Camphor of flames, priests locking temples away
Shuddering in their throats, stomachs of god food
Stones that lay dead in centuries of time, in  paint.

 
Our gods are stones, dark in the closed sanctums
Of musty old air of flowers, camphor and flames.
We want to shudder in them in a plight of truth
Of death possibility, carrying it on our shoulders
Heavy under a God of petrified centuries on them.
We want to shudder in God, all the while , dying.

 

 

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