desperate

Melancholy, who is yet so bitter in the face of wine and blood. As wine pours out from Your mouth, I grasp desperately into your garnments, and yet I still find myself in the clothes of a lamb who had been used as an offering, as though others were not seen, I see them into the hearts of those who dwell within You, for You are present even in the sea of clouds who shares no exit nor entrance. Purification is as if it is white as a dove. It is as if a fresh new paint bottle is to be opened with the uplifting scent, yet dirtied by others who dare to mix as if soft and rough hands tried to intertwine as one. Who had thought the other was an exception from what they had thought of was a lack of quality, in between the gaps of what a human being is like, through the mistakes of what had been made in the beginning –in the garden.