Easter

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Three days ago, your pants had a hole in them.
You said it was because your heart overflowed with the embers of love.
Unfortunately, the ashes ended up in the corner of your pants.

You wanted to patch them because you remembered.
Mother's sweat flowed between the lines.
You wanted to coat them with love.
The best you had because you remembered.
Her tears had become clear.
Everything was there: your pants pocket.

This Sunday morning service.
You wiped your face, as if you wanted to say,
“It's okay if your pants have a hole.
It's okay, all the shame.
All those feelings have been borne.
After last Friday.
You caught the torn piece of her robe.
Even though you doubted why.”

His psalm strengthens your defeated steps
Even if you are helpless
In front of the congregation
His word is a lamp for your feet
And light for your path

You know, your love is never enough
Arranging a bunch of flowers
On his last supper table
You know, your love is no different
Stale wine and unleavened bread

But you heard it from a distance
Songs of joy call your name
Nothing is too late
There can be no useless sambat
Even though it's lonely, it's eternally familiar
Even if silence is liquor
As hard as your heart when you pray:
Hopefully the silence will pass quickly
If possible pass on this cup
Than me, yes, Father

“Makarios!”
Someone walks by after greeting you
Guiding blessings across the footbridge
Death