Why is such heavy sorrow in these rising voices
Singing of light with letters pressed in black?
Why does this boiling gold within the air
Throb in the altar of my throat so close to sobbing?
Why do I need your rib to hold my dome of forehead,
Leaving you aching with a hidden hole?
Why is your image on the liquid gold
Cut with the Byzantine austerity of mourning?
Why do I nail my running steps upon your crossroad?
Why do I seek your presence to confess,
Bringing my wine within my bread of flesh,
Boiling inside your throat, inside your flesh returning?