God grant that the moment of sin

becomes bereft of friendship,

that it’s infused with fear,

so the vow of silence

holds an unease older than speech.

 

Sin has a multicoloured eye:

it changes shades

like the mother-of-pearl,

it wriggles like an eel,

crawls faster than a centipede.

 

And so, the cursed jester

can dispirit a pure soul,

sing chants to his own profit,

defile the chastity of the other –

scorch a leaf on a healthy branch.

 

It fills a gourd with bile,

sucks from a bitter breast,

thrives on thick fog,

and everything it touches

divides into an odd number.

 

God grant that the moment of sin

never touches those

who drop anchor at a known shore

and warm their conscience

on the household hearth.