***
A void exists in the air of my soul
monk along the seashore as frightened
as a ghost, he himself has decided
that his laughter is holy, dancer
counter to space, counter to time.
Nonetheless this soul ought also
to have sung but he doesn’t want
to surrender to the mermaid voices
seeing “The Being”, a strange thing
he shouts, “All is false” and treads
on the toys of a child who’s been playing
in the sand: a whirligig, a rhombus,
knucklebones, mirror. The short wakefulness
of holy beatitude! For today’s mask
that the god granted us showing his mercy
attracted by ogres with toys.
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