Thousands of slaves of The Saviour run
bent over to a place to sit, belly to buttock
nose in the back, sections full of light pink
shoulders under the violet
shaved crowns

to open the brain
under sun and moon
to the Great Soul
and to gain self-knowledge
from the mirrors around you

the exchangeable bodies that
under the discipline of loneliness
among silent fellow sufferers
no longer can die
from everyday life's dangers

Everywhere you see yourself
among the hard faces
of armed guards
and you cling to
the changing of the light

the rustle of rain and
scents brought by the wind
He laughs best who laughs last
But what kind of laugh is that?
A laugh which is not shared...

To understand what is going on
in my belly, the tingling and tickling
of the flagella that know blindly
what I am hoping for, I dive down
in the collective unconscious

I juggle with symbols
name the gloss of the cells
soul and the cells an embodiment
of the great soul, the invisible
connection of everything, and among all

there is the mystery of the angels
who hold our essence
and carry in their hands my desire
to the nesting place
in my belly, tingling and tickling

while there are so many questions
from the angels of my mind
which are condemned as devils
by the fear of independence
of others and of yourself

questions about what is going on
and opinions, pros and cons
angels and devils, sometimes both armed
with deceit and threats, denying
that they are part of the great soul

Sex is nature, the soul

makes it happen, maybe
the cells come together
and the soul grows further

in a new body
which will become an old body
that feels its temporality

with a young mind

that counts the years
and cannot comprehend
to be the soul itself

that sets its mind
on new lives
of the eternally old and

eternally young soul