I want new saints
saints with birch-tree souls
whose leaves turn colour and fall
whose cruel winters freeze their
I want saints with sunrise eyes
whose Springs awaken sweat-sweet fertility,
played out on sodden sheets,
whose golden Summers bake
their bodies brown.
I want angry saints,
with molten wills,
who squeeze their carbon hearts
in rage and
bring forth diamonds,
torn by countless beatings.
Saints who make
certain that, more than perfection,
Godde desires truth.
May we find truth today and clothe ourselves in its glory.