When you reach the door,
Feel the silence of the three knocks
You will not make today
Or ever again.
Step carefully over the jamb
As the iron doors swing inward.
Wait for your eyes to see by candlelight.
Do not spill your lilies, your grape flowers, your trembling heart
On the cold stone floor
When you kneel at the cross-hall where his ancestors are.
Chestnut eyes, Charcoal eyes, Cedar of Lebanon eyes...
The dead require nothing more than a nod.
For the living, the bronze bell tolls above the altar.
Grasp the rope and pull steadily:
Long the throng shall laud your womb.
When the final echo evaporates,
Whisper your prayer
Bathe in the holy font,
Fed from the warm spring of the waking mountain.
Anoint yourself with oils
As the earth trembles:
Musk, cinnamon, and apple bark.
Wrap your body in song,
Stars, and silk.
Mount the stairs,
Attended only by the emerald dragonfly in your hair.
Warm your feet on the hearthfire rug,
And open the door of his scarlet bedchamber.