We mostly sit to worship, with the walls opposite to us
Leaving us no room for getting up and crossing the streets.
And fragrances, as if out in the garden ,in the early hours
Plucking white flowers from black darkness one by one.
A hole that lets in morning sun and some pleasant wind.
Leaving no room for getting up and flying into space above.
In sleep our gods come dressed in vintage dresses and jewels
Of exquisite beauty,their light blinding us in our closed eyes. We worship our gods in the dark caves, their bodies in stone
Sprouting lotuses in navels ,where a master craftsman is born.
It is he who chisels our foreheads, hiding our futures in them.