Priest Savatie Baștovoi
I lean over the edge of my soul as if it were something material, as over a common grave where I can look without seeing anything.
I don`t find even memories, probably grinded by their insignificance, mixed up with sand, they stay somewhere at the bottom, as a rotten canvas which breaks when you try taking it out of the earth
I know when my soul became matter, how it hardened slowly as the dust cover the walls of a vessel until it coats it up with an earthly shell.
Sometimes I woke in the morning and wiped a window blowing warm air with my mouth and wiping it with my sleeve until my sleeves became worn out, until the vapor became dry and it wasn`t warm anymore.
Lover of men, God, blow over me again as you blew in the beginning over Adam and make the earth warm and make my heart as a fire, a small fire where to warm up myself when I stand before you and I begin to see again.