Orison

Twisting vines choke me, ripe with grief and fear-trembling.

Wine bitter-sweet spills from my heart and my soul cannot abstain.

Every drop of pain dappled in summer light is soaked into the soft temple floor,

Seeking the lattice-cracks at the root of my being;

I am ripe with what cannot be harvested.

I am drowned, baptized in libation, praying grace is near.

I do not seek release from this pain but within this pain.

This cavernous, echoing emptiness and the joyous melody that dances my heart

Spring both from the fountainhead of love.

Where is, then, the delivering illumination inside my sorrow?

O gods!一 Unveil to me the starlight on this wine-dark sea,

So my tears may bear up to them all the love I cannot give.