Am I soulless on this Easter Island?
Combing the beaches in a bathrobe,
the day’s sun could not move slower;
the isle’s wind could not shift any more like a snail.
The sight of the sun should be breathtaking,
on today of all days.
The sight of the Son, however, dims paradise…
the paradise of the heart.
The waves of blood crash at my feet,
more red than that infamous apple.
Prayer should turn the ocean black to blue…
Will it stick this time?