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We worship where the world itself
wants to be touched,
it's diamond fever burning up the moon's brilliance
until the rose-entwined morning;
sleep wedding us to the day,
as the sky gods rise above
like the blood of a beautiful dove
sacrificed against implacable altars of evening.
Your hungry heart holds you
suspended between vast pillars of a dream,
where warm constant winds
may drink their fill of a sweet trust,
and where the lingering taste
hides like the petals of flowers at dusk:
the bouquet of night is always near
to those, whose other voice is music.
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