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Nov |
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a poem by Paul Hellweg
The Great Mystery
Lit up my altar to Kuan Yin
Chinese goddess of mercy
five candles
her white porcelain figurine
smiling at me,
lit up myself too
five beers
and five Scotches
now
half-past drunk
all the candles burned out
but the one in the center
highlighting the sacred secret
between her thighs
makes me wonder
what it would be like to...
and
I feel like I'm dangerously close to
blasphemy
but at least the goddess of mercy
doesn't condemn to eternal hell
those who don't believe
or are disrespectful,
and as she smiles
that beatific smile
I know what she means,
her hands cupped in Yoni
make me understand
that the Great Mystery
isn't sex
but
life itself.
Chinese goddess of mercy
five candles
her white porcelain figurine
smiling at me,
lit up myself too
five beers
and five Scotches
now
half-past drunk
all the candles burned out
but the one in the center
highlighting the sacred secret
between her thighs
makes me wonder
what it would be like to...
I feel like I'm dangerously close to
blasphemy
but at least the goddess of mercy
doesn't condemn to eternal hell
those who don't believe
or are disrespectful,
and as she smiles
that beatific smile
I know what she means,
her hands cupped in Yoni
make me understand
that the Great Mystery
isn't sex
but
life itself.