My temple is a glade,
The brook is my baptismal font,
And at the high altar of the sun
The rosary of my misdeeds
Becomes a floating song
Silent breezes shake
The mantle of the hills,
Green or greener,
Dark or silvering by turns
The valley whispers
Like a hoarse dry throat
The time to kneel,
To lift my face toward the clouds
Has come and gone:
Now the night crowds in,
Old wounds dance mayhem
As I make my way again
Along the cemetery of my dreams,
Along the careless earth of my desires
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