of being saved

The wind blows
where he wants
whether caught
in the tabernacle

And if
the white
dove a
door gap
is open to

In one
stormwind
the walls
of being saved
converted

Rolls the
red apple
of paradise
by the
chaste
victim cloth
the eternal
walker
at your feet

The spring
the to
grass
comprehensible
from his
flower bouquet

Your pair of eyes
me from
head to toe
my soul
in your
hands laying