Heavy breath, as he bends, lower yet again,
In vain as his knees start to bleed,
As his murmurs become yearning pleads
As his murmurs become yearning pleads
He turns to her rising in white cloths,
Quivering hands appear
from holes eaten out by moths.
She turns, turns, bends,
rises with no sound.
As he losses count – in
her a light he has found.
A kiss to the red worn carpet
down below.
He takes no rest, as he bends into a new bow.
Cross your chest, good man, and start over.
He is, after all, our one and only savior.
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