Holy

[papamogambo]

The heart is becoming impure—
when evening or night descends;
the morning dew somehow
carries the scent and sound of holiness
right until noon, yet even after bathing
with fragrant soap, still holy—
where? Foam rises in the mouth, like the croaking
of a frog— yet when will the days come
to hear the story of the holy?
Work and duties have no fixed time,
how then will holiness ever be found;