From atop the altar, a humming sound,
the sweet scent of imminent grace,
morning light imbues stained glass
with timeless palpitation, what is old
is new once, ancient olive wood
balustrades provide steady ascent.

What’s that hovering o’er the assembled?
My soul resonates with the dissonant voicing
of the towering pipe-organ.

Chant, all you chanters.
Mais oui, absolument, chanté!

The good news is that
good news is
Truth.

From here atop the land-mound
I sing to the sun gods,
I reflect light back
To The Others on the land-mounds
Below Me, and They to Those
Below Them and on

We are One upon rich green rope,
buttery young olives.

© Chagall ∞

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