Lord, come into the fort
Of my soul upper room
Even through the shut gates
The bridge to my fortress lifted
Come inside of my citadel
Without windows, only walls
Even over the dull resistance
Of my stony heart.

Even though I am not
A hospitable attendant
I have no clean water
To wash the pilgrim’s feet
Even though I have
No abundant, earnest love
For the nearby fellow.

Lord, I cannot change
Myself into a silvery angel
I tried it so hard many times
But it has been of no avail.

I planted apple trees to blossom
In the gloom of my heart
I even left rainbow butterflies
To sail along the raw streams
Of my saline, bitter blood
A free ride into the abyss.

But I could not fly freely
Like an translucent angel
I could not glide as a butterfly.
Help me, Lord, I beseech you
To become a true human
With body, soul, spirit
And sound character
That lamp of destiny.

HOMO LITURGICUS
Poems by Marin Mihalache
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