I don’t look like you,
for I am more than you.
I am in the dusk
a temple priestess,
consecrated I guard
the fire of the future
– – – – – – – –
I step out in front of you
with a message of joy:
The kingdom of God begins.
Not Christ’s
vastness, wasting away,
no, higher, lighter
human figures
approach the altar
to give thanks,
with a smell of heaven
and stupidity.
There is the altar –
like a sigh from God’s breast –
crown it with roses
so that you see a mountain of beauty.
Lightly shall
the spirit of the hour sit
and drink
the toast to the hour
out of fine, golden glasses.