Worshipping in everywhere in a rose leaf
or in a celebration of the day in a drop of water.
Worship behind an honest word,
a sincere smile
in a temple of a voluptuous breast,
in the masque of the silent whisper of doves on the domes,
in the alter of the most unmagical ceremonies,
written as invisible ink with lemon juice
in between the lines of a written book.
Worship in the language between the lines
like a hidden song that its rhythm can be heard
vaguely in the reverberating pecking innuendo on the dome,
like a church that in their sacraments are magic shows
that regardless of how many swords, the God is still alive
but Übermensch dies
before even the magic box is closed.
Let them crucify him in silence again
silence is not prohibited again for those who only listen to the voices,
read,
only the lines.
They never see the blank between the lines,
the lemon tree and the white doves, with olive branches lines,
all written in the sacred language of
olives and its leaves,
your whims and silence.
