Tristitia Salutaris

You fall into the heights toward the very bottom,
Where silver peace seals the spheres.
The pupils swept clean by stellar dust –
The barriers broke apart for the gnostic.
The question that grew up through the mind
Seeks a home in the pure ether.
The Creator is silent. He is the mirror of the soul,
Where one’s own reflection destroys all mirages.

Holy sadness – to remain face to face,
To stand at last before the face of shadow.
Do not raise cathedrals from the rot of centuries,
From the whisper that faded in the cobwebs.
The answer sleeps in the scars of voids,
In the salt of words, in icy burning.
God is only a void, sharp and holy –
Your deepest, most solitary self.