*зловеще хихикая: отомщу...*

If only blood were what it takes to write,
if nights of kneeling were what lights an altar
lamp, shards inlaying my eye-ground might
piece back into a semblance of the elder

Word, which has always been there, despite
all everythings. Unsheltered, giving shelter.
It used to be chalked out, and revived;
to kill - the very thing it'd never meant.

Lo! birds be they, who fly, forever free,
who lost the equilibrium, who rattle,
who bounce away, unbalanced, heaven-bound;

Still, Death would beat his way unerringly,
and in the corner, altar lamp still cradles
the God, and, being Words, they stay unblown.