I come to you, a pilgrim
To bathe in the arms of my mother.
Her healing tears lap on your holy shores,
Only the littered water affirms my entrance to a land of loss.
The orange cloth rekindles my meditation
But I’m distracted by its filth, clouding your purity.
A tinkling chime calls my eye to the shining coat of a four-legged passerby
Yet my virgin hooves do not know your broken streets.
I look to my Father, his peaks in perfect reflection, mighty and unmoved.
Hoping, wishing, praying…
it starts to rain.