We mostly sit to worship, with the walls opposite to us
Leaving us no room for getting up and crossing the streets.

In the marble our gods listen, from the shelves of flowers
And fragrances, as if out in the garden ,in the early hours
Plucking white flowers from  black darkness one by one.
The walls face us with their hanging gods smiling  below
A hole that lets in morning sun and some pleasant wind.
Many times we lie to worship, with a false roof above  us
Leaving no room for getting up and flying into space above. 
We mostly worship under closed eyelids, our lips muttering.
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.


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