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Kneeling, moments of great calm, kneeling before an altar of wood in a stone church in summer, waiting for the God to speak.
The air a staircase for silence, the sun's light ringing me as though I acted a great role, and the audience is still, all that close throng of spirits, waiting, as I, for the message.
Prompt me, God, but not yet.
When I speak,
I speak,
though it be you who speak through me,
something is lost,
the meaning is in the waiting.
