My heart is too big
to hold god,
angels maybe,
dark-skinned,
with ragged clothes,
but not god.

Alone in His majesty,
it would be a waste of space,
and we should take care
to make of his gifts more than that.

Where are we to go
on Sundays
from now on, you ask?
Well, you could come to my house,
and I to yours. Or, if that won't do,

we'll build a house from the ground;
and it will be just a house, a house
without memory, without beatings
and cold stares.  Flowers
in all the windows, growing up,
blessed with restlessness.