The red river of fire flows from heaven
towards the beast of Leviathan —
layers of gold haloed saints
gather at the golden door —
the cosmic heaven of Voronet blue
is replaced by gold within.
Trembling fingers
hold a worn small book,
whispering a ritual, bag to her side,
kneeling near the entrance.
A white scarf in plain embroidery,
sewn with prayers, covering her head.
A young mother kneels,
chin on interlocked fingers.
Her son skipping in the nave.
A kneeling man stands,
gestures the cross,
a reverent swing to the earth,
kissing the framed golden engraving
of Mary holding her Son.
A lean old pilgrim with folded fingers,
her knuckles like ankles,
whispering in a drone of prayer.
Doamne miluiește.
Small windows in the dark tall room
glow morning halos.
Smell of lilies loom.
Layers of rotated inverted steps,
darkened by soot.
A dizzying look upwards —
the Father
looking down from the dome.
Crosses behind and beside
the main one on the roof —
a giant cross offered into the sky.
Gold framed arches on frescos
of the iconostasis,
behind the small golden pivot door —
capturing imagination in the nave.
Young monks stand inside tall chairs,
fill the nave with murmurations,
reading the sunlit pages.
The chant slides these swirls of the hum
into the tall vault of these hollows —
his white beard captures the glow —
upper back hunched above the book,
dragging intonations, variations
like the meend.
Door opened to the sanctum,
revealing morning light.
Another deep chant
reverberating in swirls.
The priest in white robe with red crosses
blesses with each swing of the cădelniță.
Rolling bells —
trailing fumes of frankincense.
Doamne miluiește.
Rows of haloed monks climb
My face fills up in warmth,
blurring my vision —
outside —
the swifts’ birdsongs echo,
swirling
where my hollows meet the blue.