Below a cloister, a mushroom, or below a leaf,
Religion has, for sure, no name of its own.
Both monks and ants, out of very same dough,
would bake their bread in homely heaven.
Over the earth are thirst and cassock,
ant-hills, church bells and holy icons.
And if you try a crumb against your mouth,
All of a sudden faith begins to crumble.
At rain-rise or at sour vinegar blooming
The soil is fissured, in opinion shaken.
And God must be the greatest poet,
feeding us words and having no doubts.
It is just Him – so innocent and broken
by fallen leaf, by mushroom and by chapel –
to tell us how to promptly wash our day
and how at last to join Him for supper.
And as we try the shadow of the food,
He will proceed in silence to the forest.
A gentle deer will follow in his footsteps
to give a kiss to Him and take a good-bye.
