Two Worshipers Poem by Axel Durman

From panes gazing, here I wonder
My pew imbued by your luminescent glow
Shall I see beyond your threshold window
Where rays discover the nakedness of secrets and the true colour of my nature is reflected in passers-by

When the sweat of my dark skin brings me bread and oil
That coarse crocus rubbing against this varnished mohogany, the smell of pine mingled with the moisture of my fingers, a thousand cuts from chisels and rivets, only God knows what I know.
Every coin has its tale.

My solitude will bare the desire of an eternal escape
Experience as bitter as ascending morne de La Croix under the midday sun.
Successive years my sorrow ever bitter
Through this window my secrets still chasing

Glass full of that sweet cane juice, crushed ice and gin, companions of the waves cajoling against twin peaks.
The tanned bourgeois paying homage to the ancient god, with unblemished lips
I come bearing peace offerings, beads and birds, five or ten in hand, the curse of this damned island for many generations.

Time rolls on these incessant bells toll louder
An opaque view through panes bathed in turquoise
Waiting 'til the silver cup is raised then I take my queue

Finally swung barely ajar and captive doves escape, the bell ceases, a litany of peace resounds amidst praise and thanks
This must be the time when spirits rejoice clothed with white crested sheets of blue, bowing to carpets of gold, in unbroken symphony
It must be that time!

A steady pace, to catch the last light, before the service is over and the worshippers fold away and odious ointments no more fill the air.
'Two shillings apiece, for my little boy, only six years' from priest to priestess these gnarled hands a bargain struck, and I give praise to a God greater than sea, sand, sky and all living things.